Enid Grindland: the time comes for all of us

(echo press image)

We have a sample of Enid Grindland's rosemaling in our house. I say "we" and "our" even though I reside here alone. The soul of the whole family continues to reside here. That includes our dogs: "Misty, Heidi and Sandy." 

The Grindlands were an important element in family: They presided at First Lutheran Church. Enid's husband Cliff was pastor. They came here in 1960 which was ten years before the main Lutheran synods even allowed female pastors. It's amazing to realize that the step forward came so late. How could Lutheran churches even survive today without women in true leadership positions? 

Imagine you're in the 1960s again. Imagine that the idea of a female pastor was completely off the table. Imagine that the suggestion of female eligibility was controversial. It should remind you of something. It should remind you of the more recent controversy involving the eligibility of gay people. The tempest did subside but not without a cost of people splintering off. 

The mainstream Lutheran organization at present is stressed. Predictions are dire, backed by real evidence. The dissenters peeled off and now we find them in places like the church out north of town by the dog kennel. A friend and I call it the "dog kennel church." What an unnecessary schism that developed. But if the dissenters were so absolutely rock-ribbed, so unwilling to modify their views and be more accepting, a mending is probably nigh impossible. 

Enid Grindland became known for her rosemaling. She discovered the art in a trip to Norway in 1970. That's the year I was confirmed. My peers and I were at the heart of the boomer generation. So many of us! We were arranged in rows at the front of the sanctuary for our official photo. I could not grasp the significance of confirmation at the time. Like nearly all - make that all - of my youthful activities, it was simply arranged by my parents. I supplied no impetus of my own, felt no incentive of my own, saw no direct reward on my own. 

Such things were a rite of growing up. You might say I went through the motions. I'd guess many of my peers did likewise, though they might not be so forthcoming to admit it. It was the salad days for First Lutheran Church in Morris. We were as conservative and mainstream as you'd want, clearly "the establishment" as my generation would say. 

Jim Morrison recalled with me how our generation never took to churchgoing. This isn't to say we didn't get dolled-up quite often to attend. But we were sort of on a leash. We were following expectations. The various habits encouraged by our parents did not seem to have a positive effect on us. So many of us drifted toward amoral or self-destructive behavior as the '60s gave way to the '70s. I have no qualms recalling this. 

My old peers would say I lack adequate grounding to comment: they'd say I was obviously too naive and protected. You know what? Sometimes the quiet and naive kids, the kids subjected to teasing, soak in more about their environment than anyone else. I was over-sheltered but it was a blessing, just in terms of protecting my health. I heard stories about kids who fell to the depths, then pulled themselves up by "discovering" Christian faith. As if they hadn't been exposed to that all along. 

The parents of the boomers had overcome so much. They took none of their blessings for granted once the clouds of the Depression and WWII passed. And then they showered blessings on their own children, as if this was some sort of ticket to happiness. Who can blame them for thinking that? Little did they know they were actually inculcating a strange void of unhappiness, illogical though that was. Maybe it's a lesson in how happiness is seductive but elusive? 

I was never impressed by stories of how some of my peers plunged to the depths with drug use or other vices/bad judgment, and then they "found God" or "found Christ" and were rescued. Christianity should be discovered as something besides a way to get yourself pulled out of a hole. 

At the very present, Christianity is a means to latch yourself onto right wing politics. To get yourself latched to Donald Trump and Mike Pence, men about whom I doubt Christ would say much if anything positive. These are men who went out of their way to suggest "herd immunity" as a way to get past the pandemic, i.e. to accept the needless loss of so many lives. The government wouldn't have to be bothered with doing anything drastic. Republicans never want the government to do drastic things to simply help people. "Herd immunity" was so convenient for them. 

 

Enid was a double-major

I remember Enid Grindland complimenting my trumpet playing after an Easter Sunday service in '71 or '72. I appreciate the comment more now that I learn she was a music education major at Concordia College-Moorhead. She actually had a double major, her other being English. Wow! And I'm a writer too, so I feel kin with Enid. 

I should say "felt" kin with Enid. You see, Enid Grindland left us for the next life on November 25 at the age of 92. So blessed to have a long life just like my parents who reached 96 and 93. My mother almost made age 94. 

The patriarchal Clifford Grindland left this life in 2009 and I was able to take my parents to his funeral in Alexandria. Kind of a shame his funeral couldn't be in Morris. My father had discontinued driving and his cognitive skills were slipping. I'm not sure if he could place Enid but I remember her saying to us "it's so nice to see you here." Fortunately my parents had an adult child who could get them around to such important things. 

Many Lutheran clergy were at the funeral. I was pleased to shake hands with Rev. Dean Larson. I'm not sure Dean had the best opinion of me, back in his tenure here, just based on his rubbing shoulders with certain congregation members. Ahem. But he had a big nice smile and an agreeable look in his eyes. Rev. Todd Mattson was at the funeral. Todd is remembered as the pastor who really energized the youth and was thus lionized by their parents, some of whom got a little too big for their breeches. Parents of adolescents can lose their grip on reality. I know from vast experience. 

 

Not so naive?

I remember getting reacquainted with several people with whom I had spent time in the summer of 1973. I was immature at that earlier time, I'm sure perceived as almost comically naive, but what's fascinating is this: when we got reacquainted, they approached me as if they could sense I had seen and known everything, as if I could pierce the pretensions and stupidity of some of my drug and alcohol-addled peers, and I suppose a couple more vices could be thrown in. 

Truly it is sordid to recall all that. I think those old associates of mine realized I was a keen observer. Remember that I became a journalist, and still am a journalist. That mantle in life is the epitome of being an observer. 

Enid Grindland, RIP. Maybe the echoes of my old trumpet playing will be heard in heaven. (I remember the late Rick Yerigan saying "do you have to thrust your pelvis?") 

I remember that as a child, my peers and I often did not sit in the pews with our parents. We sat with each other, maybe in a "cluster." I remember one Easter as I sat next to friend Brian Henjum, we saw some of our friends enter the sanctuary dressed in suits/ties, guys who we hardly ever saw in church. "I haven't seen those clowns in church since last Easter," Brian chirped.

- Brian Williams - morris mn minnesota - bwilly73@yahoo.com