 Okay, we have all these people with hearing problems. All right, next person who wants to test it. I suggest we not touch this thing. Dan, is that correct? We should not move this thing around. I'm supposed to be turning this on and off. How do you do it? You guys have tested. We don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what you're talking about. Darn it. There's a button. It's like green. That means it's working. Friends? What's purple mean? No, it's not. No. So are we supposed to turn this on? I don't know. But if you do need to move it, it's harder to move it around. See, it doesn't add all the time. We're going to leave it on. We're going to leave it on. We're not going to touch it. See, I'm tall, but they're not. That's why I'm talking. That's why I don't hit it. Okay, but it picks up so... It's got a radius. But you... It would probably be better to get closer. That would reduce the echo. If I'm closer, the echo is reduced. Is that less echo? I can't believe how... I can talk more stuff. It's echo risk. I shouldn't project at all. Should I just talk? Obviously, I'm not a mic person. Yeah. Some of our speakers So just talk in a normal voice. Just speak in a normal voice. Hey, guys. It's echoing so much. What if no one shows up? Then it won't matter. Okay, we're just going to go for it. Anybody else want to check? We don't have to touch this at all. I'm not going to touch it. Oh, see? The interstate in Ohio. Okay. There's too much sound. Too much? Well, there's too much sound in the background. We can't... I can't tell them to shoot. Reunion on... Reunion on the interstate. Alan and I were on the interstate in Ohio. Okay? Please. Don't forget to bring that with you. I'll have to go down. I can do the part. That's fine. College choices. Softer. College choices. Returning home from a marathon driving trip. There is no such thing as chance. A photographic memory. A photographic memory. A photographic memory. Before we start, just a reminder if there are any children here that summer fund this week starts right now in courtyards from A through C. I invite you to join me in a moment of centering silence. And now please join me for our in-gathering hymn, number 188. Good morning. Welcome to the first Unitarian Society of Madison. This is a community where curious seekers gather to explore spiritual, ethical, and social issues in an accepting and nurturing environment. Unitarian universalism supports the freedom of conscience of each individual as together we seek to be a force for good in the world. My name is Dorit Bergen and on behalf of the congregation I would like to extend a special welcome to visitors. We are a welcoming congregation so whoever you are and wherever you happen to be on your life journey, we celebrate your presence among us. Newcomers are encouraged to stay for our fellowship hour after the service and to visit the library across from the center doors of this auditorium. Bring your drinks and your questions. Members of our staff and lay ministry will be on hand to welcome you. You may also look for persons holding teal, stoneware, coffee mugs. These are FUS members knowledgeable about our faith community who would love to visit with you. Experience guides are generally available to give a building tour after each service so if you would like to learn more about this sustainably designed addition or our national landmark meeting house, please meet near the large glass window on the left side of the auditorium immediately after the service. We welcome children to stay for the service. However, because it is difficult for some in attendance to hear in this lively acoustical environment, our child haven and commons are excellent places to hear if a child needs to talk or move around. The service can still be seen and heard from those areas. Speaking of noise, this would be a good time to turn off all electronic devices. I would like now to acknowledge those individuals who help our services run smoothly. On sound this morning we have David Briles. Our lay minister is Tom Boykoff. Your greeter was Janine Nussbaum. We welcome you today to the hall of art and hospitality today is offered by Gail Bliss and Sandy Plish. Please note the announcements on the Red Floor's insert in your order of service, which describe upcoming events at the society and provide more information about today's activities. Again, welcome. We hope that today's service will stimulate your mind, touch your synchro destiny, harnessing the infinite power of coincidence to create miracles. According to Vedanta, there are only two symptoms of enlightenment, just two indications that a transformation is taking place within you toward a higher consciousness. The first symptom is that you stop worrying. Things don't bother you anymore. You become lighthearted and full of joy. The second symptom is that you encounter more and more meaningful coincidences in your life, more and more synchronicities. And this accelerates to the point where you actually experience the miraculous. And now would you join me in our lighting and our reading for the chalice? We light our chalice in faith and hope to find what meaning life holds for us, to laugh and sing with one another, to soothe the wounds of daily life and to grow together in wisdom and in love. And now if you would turn to other people and exchange some greetings with each other. Mysterious isn't there about the playfulness we sometimes find in an experience of synchronicity. Me and perhaps you as well. We feel singled out in this awesome and seemingly impersonal universe. For the moment, we're not as alone as it seems. And so this is one of my memories of this sort of incident, it's called a photographic memory. I lived in and moved from numerous places in my early married years. As a result, I had collected an eventually lost track of lots of friends during that period. One friend was Marilyn. She and John had befriended my husband and me during the year we lived in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. We had known them for six more years when we were all living in Hawaii. Marilyn was a sweet lady, mother of three kids, clumpish and with the complexion of a peach. We saw a lot of each other as our husbands taught at the same college prep academy in Camuela on the big island. Our teaching community was very close. We were all young, had left families behind on the mainland and were starting new families. We ate in the same dining hall and spent a lot of recreational hours together. It was very hard when my husband and I eventually left our little close-knit group for the mainland and a new job. I knew we wouldn't see these very special people again. After a number of moves and a divorce, perhaps ten years after leaving Hawaii, I ended up in Madison, Wisconsin. I can't recall the circumstances, but somehow I was offered a free portrait at a photo studio at Madison's East Town Mall. As I was waiting to be called for my sitting, my eyes wandered around the studio to the portraits on the wall. At the sight of one of them, I did a double take and then another. The people in this portrait looked very familiar. A father, a very sweet looking mother, and three teenage children. Could they possibly be my old friends from Hawaii? It had been a long time since I had seen them, but these people sure look familiar. I wondered if the studio would be allowed to tell me the names and perhaps the phone numbers of these people. Probably not. Respect for privacy and all that. Bummer. I looked at the portrait again and mentally set my old friends my warmest regards. Every once in a while, the world graces us with a wondrous surprise and we feel the oneness of the universe. Marilyn, having driven down from her home in nearby Beaver Dam to pick up her portraits, walked through the studio door at that very moment. Still sweet and flamboyant with the complexion of a peach. Yes, we did recognize each other immediately. Is that really you? Is that really you? And we laughed delightedly at each, at such an amazing coincidence falling into each other's arms with a scoop. The theme of the First Unitarian Society Sunday Service, now some years ago, was right relations. At one point we were invited into meditation to reflect on a time in our lives when a relationship was transformed. When something had transpired to alter, enhance, and spiritually enrich us. While I've had these experiences, the process has usually been gradual and I was not used to pinpointing, defining moments. As it turned out, I was in the midst of one. Before the service started, I noticed a man and a woman sitting nearby. They looked to be in their late 40s or so. The woman began to talk to my husband. I did not know her, but felt as though I'd known her for the better part of my life. She then introduced herself with a smile and a hug. She was Kim, the daughter of a school friend back in the 1950s, when we both lived in a small town in northeastern Wisconsin. Once I saw the similarities, the eyes, the mouth, the jawline, the voice. But it was so much more than the physical resemblance. Kim's openness and vitality mirrored the warmth of her mother, Lien, who now also lives in Madison. Kim told me how much her mother had cared for me and talked about me over the years. I was flooded with memories, both joyful and painful. The flowers for the services that day were in memory of Kim's father, Gary, who died five years earlier at that time. Kim had provided the flowers for weekend services in memory of her father. I'd known Gary since grade school, for their family lived just three blocks away. Lien came to Sturgeon Bay from Carroll, Illinois when she was in grade school and we became fast friends. It seemed improbable in many ways. She was beautiful and mature, while I was a late bloomer with my nose off and stuck in a book. But when you're young, you don't sort yourself out into those more neural circles of friendship and cliques that develop later. Lien embodied authenticity and kindness. While most of us engaged in petty fights and jealousies with our girlfriends as we grew older, she took part in none of that. Gary and Lien, Lien and Gary, who was a year younger, met in junior high and they were inseparable from then on. Toward the end of her junior year, Lien became pregnant. Marriage was not an option because they were so young. Lien was pressured to go away, have the baby and put it up for adoption. But the only option that Lien considered was to have the baby and keep it. In those days, many thought it scandalous to be an unmarried mother and there was a lot of gossip in that town. Their parents and friends supported them in their time of need. Most important though was what Lien was able to muster through tremendous conviction and courage to see her through the next few years. If you of us remained her close friends, we spent time with her during and after the pregnancy and visited her in the hospital when the baby was born. After Gary turned 18, he and Lien married and they began a life together in Madison where Gary was a student at the University of Wisconsin. Lien and I saw each other from time to time as I was a student at UW as well. It was always fun to see each other but we started to move in different directions. Lien and Gary had two more children and remained in Madison after Gary graduated. Both became successful respected members of the business community. It was and is a close knit family with mother and daughters still in business together. There were struggles too I'm sure but Lien created an overarching sense of solidarity and love that both spoke volumes about right relations. I certainly didn't go to church that Sunday expecting to meet the child born in that Algoma hospital now over half a century ago. A young mother's love protected her and kept her close and I now know her as part of our faith community. When we embraced at the end of the service we were both in tears. It was a transformational experience. There are a couple of post scripts to this story after I had sent it to the editors and I shared it also with Lien I'm sorry before submitting it I also sent it to Lien and shared it with her and her daughters continuing the connection and the concept of right relations. So this is Lien's response. You describe our situation well. It was a time in my life that made me a stronger person and many times when approaching a difficult situation I go back to that time and it gives me what I need to tackle the situations I'm facing. Kim's response to me nostalgia grief joy these are precious things that we share as history with the folks with whom we have right relations. As I told mom I have often marveled at the beauty of our finding each other in our faith community serendipity at its best and then from Kelly the other daughter to her mother I have always known that I was blessed with a truly amazing mother but never fully appreciated my blessings until I read Carolyn's words. We can only hope to be as loving to our kids as you've been to us. Then on the interstate Alan and I were on the interstate in Ohio driving back to Wisconsin from Connecticut after attending the funeral services of our niece who had died unexpectedly. The weather forecast was ominous October rains with freezing temperatures so Alan and I decided to head farther south to Highway 80 rather than stay north on Highway 90 which was closer to the lakes and risk icy roads. We were breezing along just after a lunch stop when Al looked in the rear mirror and noticed the station wagon coming along and quickly zooming past us going all out down the road zoom zoom Al thought the wagon looked familiar when it passed us as it was getting farther and farther away he wondered out loud could that be my brother Roger? Roger lives in Ohio what would he be doing in Ohio curious Al sped up for a closer look and that's when we saw see the car has an Iowa license plate and a brown for assembly bumper sticker on the back of the car. Brown is the name of Roger's son-in-law who had run for the Iowa State Assembly. It is my brother Al says as we get closer to the speeding car. We catch up and drive along the right side Roger was speeding along in the left lane. Al toots our horn and we wave trying to get his attention. It takes Roger and his wife a few minutes to realize that it's us laughing we then lead them off the highway at the next exit where we have a cup of coffee and a short visit together. They were on their way home to Iowa from Maine where they were looking to buy property. Neither of us had known we would be on the east coast at the same time had it not been for the weather conditions and the sad circumstances that took us out east Al and I never would have been on that highway had Roger and his wife not chosen that time to look for property in Maine. This is one family reunion that would never have happened. I'm going to read you a story written by Hannah Pinkerton. Hannah is recovering very nicely from hip replacement surgery. Silver lining. In the yellowed picture my great grandmother Emeline is in front of a large brick house in Portage. She's tall round faced serious and wearing a full length stylish dark dress standing next to her oldest daughter Leona. It is 1876 or a few years earlier or later. It seems a cool spring in Wisconsin they are dressed warmly and the leaves on the birch trees are budding. I imagine that the two women are ready for calling on neighbors. They go by buggy down the muddy streets to visit the minister's wife. Mrs. Minister is not at home. So Emeline reaches to a small silver case hanging from her finger to remove her calling card. She drops the card and engraved with Emeline Van Dusen into a silver dish in the front parlor. From the case she takes a small silver pencil and writes on the card. I am sorry to have missed you I will call later. In the summer of 1980 I walked down the street and around the corner to where our Madison neighbors were having a garage sale. I looked through pots, pans, books and a table with old jewelry. I saw a silver case with engraving and after bringing it into the light I barely made out E-V-D etched into the top. Hmm, strange initials. I asked what it was and where it had come from. The neighbor didn't know. It was given to her by a boyfriend who found the silver case in a pawn shop in Portage. Could those initials be Van Dusen? I remembered that my paternal grandmother, Ploy Van Dusen, lived with her family in Portage while she was in high school before entering the University of Wisconsin in 1891. I never got to meet her because she died a month before I was born in 1937. My middle name is Van Dusen after her side of the family. Let's see what was her mother's name. I could check the family genealogy. I paid Felicia $20 for the silver case and took it home. In the genealogy I found that Emmeline Van Dusen died in 1900. What had happened to her possessions and where did the calling card case go from 1900 to 1980? The case is silver, two and a half by five inches, with E-V-D etched on the front. A hinged lid opens only after a thin silver pencil is removed. A small pad of paper is on one side. Calling cards fit under a clip. There is an R&B sterling mark on the back cover. I can feel that this case belonged to Emmeline. Even though I never knew my grandmother or my great grandmother, their stature, love of flowers, music and writing traveled down the generations to me. The silver calling card case holds their presence. Trading places. The Buddhist teacher, Lama Surya Das says, grace is the is-ness of life. It's the recognition that everything is connected and sacred. I'm just starting to recognize grace in my own life. Meeting Amanda in London is an example. In the fall of 2002, my husband Ken and I moved to London for the semester while he was on sabbatical from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I missed my friends and hadn't connected with anyone in London yet. One Sunday morning in September, I took the subway to a service at a tiny unitarian church. It was my second visit. Perhaps 20 people attended on any given Sunday. I sat next to Amanda, a British woman who had never been in a unitarian church before that day. She usually attended a Quaker church. As it turns out, Amanda was living alone for a semester because her husband, a college professor like my husband, was on leave for the fall semester at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Amanda and I only lived in the same city for about three months. But even now, seven years later, when we get together, it is as if we've always known each other. I changed my title to read College and Other Choices, which I think you may see. Planning to be a glorified secretary. I was a senior in high school in 1962, living in Ridgewood, New Jersey, a suburb of New York City. Because my mother had once been an executive secretary in the big city, she had groomed my expectations so that I thought of going to a junior college and then transferring to a four-year school if my glamour job never appeared. My father, on the other hand, had higher aspirations and urged me to go directly to a four-year college. It was late in the senior year to be making changes, but I decided he might be right and also wondered how successful I would ever be as a secretary anyway, never having mastered touch typing in my high school typing class. The question arose, where should I go? My father, a Presbyterian minister, was keen on a church-related school. Wister College in Ohio came to mind since my father Jack, my mother's brother, had once been a faculty member there. Since we were heading to Ohio, I thought also of Ohio Wesleyan. I had gone out on a date with someone who had been a student there and he liked it, and it was Methodist. I didn't do any research, just acted on a whim. My mother, who rarely called her brother, communicated to him our intentions for this trip to Worcester and Wesleyan. He mentioned that my mother's old boyfriend from the 1930s was still on the faculty at Ohio Wesleyan. The two men knew each other slightly through shared academic interests in philosophy and religion. My uncle suggested she call him when we got to campus to say hello and perhaps learn more about the school. We first went to Worcester where it was very quiet, spring break. To the studious young man showing us around a staid, ho-hum-looking campus, I asked, what do students do on a Saturday night? That was important to me then. He replied, oh, we usually go to the library. Well, not I, I thought, as we were soon on the road to Delaware, Ohio, the small college town where Ohio Wesleyan was located and where my hopes for weekends lay. Here we had a more spirited tour. And my mother called her old boyfriend, Lloyd Easton, professor of philosophy, who invited us to stop by. Timing-wise, it was awkward. He was recently widowed and had three school-aged children there at the house. But we made our greetings a contact indeed propitious. There was clearly, to my eyes and theirs, a spark between my mother and her old beau. Yes, indeed, he had courted her in the 1930s when both lived in New York City. But left her for another whom he married, after which she married my father hastily, regretfully. Lloyd Easton was clearly interested in my mother and supportive of me, especially when I decided then and there to attend Wesleyan. Then I showed up not too many months later for freshman camp. He took a keen interest in my welfare and my mother's. At various times during the year, he saw her, and they wrote and called on a regular basis. Finally, by Thanksgiving of my sophomore year, they were married. My college town became my new hometown. My mother gained a good man and I a good stepfather. They married in 1963 and had a long second marriage of 37 years, ending with his death in 2000. It wasn't always easy with a blended family that resisted blending, but it essentially worked. They were happy together, loved long. I have often thought of the quirkiness by which I chose a college and how congruent that became for my mother's life, for my life. My mother garnered the courage to leave her long, warring marriage and to do something very adventurous, very risky. She gained a secure relationship and a small college town in which to thrive as a faculty wife. For me, I gained footing as well. My stepfather, unlike my critical, distant father, believed in me strongly, thinking I could do anything. I later did, becoming a professor and alas, never the secretary. Thanks be to those guardian, intuitive spirits, the angels of serendipity. As the Amtrak train pulled into St. Cloud, Minnesota, I was awakened by the sound of people boarding the area around me. It was one o'clock in the morning, the beginning of my three-week journey to Seattle, San Francisco, down through LA, and finally home to Madison. Sneaking a peek at the new arrivals, I noticed five adults and two children. Some whispering, others signing. As an educational sign language interpreter myself, alone on the second day of summer vacation, it occurred to me that by breakfast, I might have a new friend or two. And so it was that I made the acquaintance of Kevin, an inquisitive five-year-old originally from Korea. Kevin had been adopted the year before and was excited about being able to communicate with a total stranger as he traveled across the country with his new family. While he was a congenial little fellow, I was greatly relieved to have Lionel Ritchie in the Commodores and a cassette player by my side. Because every time I looked up, there perched Kevin on the back of his seat in front of me, waiting to pounce. You sleeping? You sleeping? He would sign. Sometimes I would offer a concurring nod, just close my eyes. But not so often that I missed this charming lad's personal story. Kevin's adoptive mother was accompanied by her two adult children and their spouses. Like Kevin, the grown-up son was deaf, as was the daughter's husband. Both mother and daughter were sign language interpreters in their home school district. So we had a lot in common. The group, composed of a blend of the hearing and deaf cultures, was traveling to a family reunion in Montana. Two years earlier, when the mother decided to adopt a child, she specified that she wanted a boy who was deaf. During the agency's search, Kevin's name popped up. So successfully did he join this family that a year later, the mom indicated that she would like to adopt a second child. And as serendipity would have it, the agency found a girl a little older than Kevin, who was also deaf. It seems so right. When Kevin and his family went to the airport to meet his new sister, they discovered just how right. As the two youngsters cheerfully rushed into each other's arms, they knew what no one else knew. They were natural siblings, separated at the orphanage when Kevin came to the United States. Siblings who never expected to see each other ever again. Now when I think about family reunions, this one stands apart. The one which helped me make a train trip unique and a heartfelt experience. The tumbleweed. Returning home from a marathon driving trip, my daughter Jenny and I stopped at a small farming community along Interstate 90 for dinner. By its location, there should have been a large constellation of motels and restaurants near the off-ramp. But all we saw was a Perkins, whose menu we had already exhausted. Jenny had a feeling that we would find a good place to eat downtown. I wasn't so sure, expecting the usual array of bars, or with luck, a ma and pa eatery that serves breakfast all day. We cruised the little town's two-block main street, and Jenny spotted the brightly lit and inviting tumbleweed. When we entered, the few scattered patrons had just finished their dinners, and we had the place to ourselves. A 60-ish woman greeted us saying, it's nearly eight o'clock, which we took to mean it was closing time. But no, we were welcome to stay if we wanted a pizza. I had visions of a microwave tombstone pizza, but it was that, or Perkins' bacon-laden offerings, so we took a seat at one of the antique tables. Our hostess brought water and menus, and Jenny engaged the woman in conversation. Jenny has never met a stranger. She learned that our hostess' name was Marie, and told her about having to rent a car and embark on a grueling 2,000-mile drive trip to Oregon due to floods that had grounded Amtrak. We settled on a white pizza, no tomato sauce. Marie brought us a big leaf lettuce salad full of delicious ingredients and heard more of our story about our week at accordion camp. I usually hesitate to engage a working person in extended conversation, assuming they're busy, but Marie seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. After learning that we both played the accordion, mother and daughter, Marie called her own daughter, Kathy, out of the kitchen. You have to hear this, she told the younger woman, and Jenny started the tale at the beginning. The train, the long drive, accordion camp. Kathy turned to her mom, saying, go get the accordion. I thought we were in for a performance, or maybe an impromptu trio. Kathy brought out the pizza handmade with two kinds of cheese, artichoke hearts, spinach, mushrooms, and olives, the best I ever had. She told us about her accordion, which had been her grandfather's. It's been wrapped in a baby blanket on my closet shelf for years, she said. In a few minutes, Marie returned with the accordion, actually a melodian, a one row button box about the size of a toaster. It was in remarkably good condition, a little honer black with painted designs. Jenny opened it up and played, oh, Susanna, surprising me as much as it delighted our hostesses. I had no idea Jenny knew how to play a button box. Nobody in our family wants it or knows how to play it, Kathy said. So I want you to have it. It grew dark outside as the four of us sat and chatted. Marie and Kathy opened the tumbleweed a year and a half earlier. It is fitted out with antique tables, an eclectic mix of mismatched chairs, an antique wooden ice box, and a hand-carved sign with the name of the restaurant. They are artists, Marie painting landscapes and Kathy crafting jewelry and other items they offer for sale at the register. Marie said the freeway and Walmart had killed a little town. Although Marie and Kathy have lived in the area for 22 years, they're still regarded as outsiders. The tumbleweed had little local support, as residents prefer to frequent the several bars on Main Street, not the fine little restaurant. They are tired and tired of trying to make a difference, so they plan to move 100 miles away to a larger community and start over. We brought our big accordions in from the car and played a few tunes for Marie and Kathy. We posed for pictures and exchanged email addresses. I asked for a menu to keep as a souvenir. Then they told us they were closing. Not for the evening, but for good. We were their very last customers. Dinner's on the house. I protested their generous offer, but Marie said that she knew when we moved in, when we came in the door, that we were their final guests, and they wanted to treat us to dinner. Jenny and I packed up the little button box and our accordions, reluctant to leave the magic circle created by the four of us, mothers and daughters, in the last hour of the tumbleweed. After hugs all around, we watched as they closed the door for the final time. There was no more driving the freeway for us that evening. We were totally overcome by our amazing encounter with two lovely generous women and the mysterious workings of the universe. I invite you now to participate in the giving and receiving of the offering, which today will benefit our society's programs. There are tales of conjured recognition, fascination, and joy, stories that raise the possibility that all life is connected, as in Carl Jan was one world. Jan was largely responsible for pioneering the concept of synchronicity, which he defined as meaningful coincidence. Scholars still explore and debate his theory. Self-help gurus mind the concept for ways to improve life. For our purposes, synchronicity refers to coming together of people in exact time and place, in a situation that is meaningful for them, without a deliberate cause and unforeseen by any of the parties. If you would like a printed version of these stories and others, under a shared umbrella is available at the book table in the commons. I would be remiss if I did not mention that the support, love, and encouragement of my FUS writing group, affectionately dubbed my muses, contributed much to the making of this anthology. I'm filled with gratitude for them, as well as for our larger FUS community. Thank you. An addiction this morning is a paraphrase of a quote from the Dalai Lama. Let us remain open to the guidance of synchronicity, and let us not allow expectations to hinder our paths. Please be seated for the postlude.