Passing the Mantel-Restated

It originally came from the Shiloh Proper. Or maybe it came from Olivet or Bethesda. In any event, I found the mantel with its raised scroll and carved legs in the attic of the women's dorm at Fairwood. I like to think I rescued it from its place among the rafters and the heat that had dried the finish to a fine powder. Parched and forgotten it waited until the day I discovered it.


I hauled it down that summer day in three pieces and set it up against the wall in the living room. I squared its corners, and I nailed it into place. To my great joy, the linseed oils I rubbed into the woodwork raised new life and luster from the sleeping grain.

In my home it held candles. Always candles. Sea glass. Lavender. Bells from Jerusalem. The bottles the kids and I found digging in the bottle dump. Each fall I would clip a new bunch of hydrangeas and stand them in a pitcher on the mantel to dry. The full white flowers blushed pink on the ends, and they always pleased my eye.

At Christmastime, I would twist live evergreens into a long rope to loop from one side to the other. I arranged the nativity scene across its length. The shepherds peeked out from the branches, and baby Jesus sat at its center. Jayna and Jared hung their stockings on hooks in hopes that St. Nick would ignore the fact that there was no real chimney and visit us through the side door instead.

When I polished the wood with love each week during Friday cleaning, I would imagine the women before me who had done the same thing. As the sun set, I lit the candles on the mantel and called my children to rejoice that the Sabbath had arrived. We would sing and clap our hands. We made up songs. We practiced saying what we were thankful for. And, the kids always waited for Jim to say: "Good things happen on the Sabbath." Then he would pull a treat out of his pocket for them.

I still have the mantel.

A few years ago, when one of the former Kingdom churches on the west coast closed, there was a certain amount of money from its sale designated for distribution to those who had given their lives without pay to the work of the movement. There were those who were supportive of this, and those who were against it. In the end, a committee was formed to oversee its fair distribution.

A per year formula was applied for years of service rendered. Jim and I had worked six years. The catch, however, was that workers could not count their first five years. I suppose that was to sort out the folks who drifted in and out of Kingdom centers a year or two at a time while they decided what to do with their lives. For our family who had sold a home, made a substantial financial contribution to the Kingdom treasury, and given our lives to a cause we believed was headed in a positive direction, this meant $372 for our efforts and disillusionment.

A Biblical principle that could have been applied instead came from the story of the day laborer who was hired to work in the fields for a set amount. As you recall, throughout the day additional laborers were enlisted to complete the work. In the end, each was paid the same amount regardless of the length of their duty.

Am I bitter? Naw. Well, maybe just a little. Although, it doesn't bother me as much as it once did. Because it was never about being compensated in the first place, I guess I would have liked to have had the contribution of my life, family and talent be weighted a little more equally than they were.

I am third generation Kingdom. If you look closely, my blood, sweat and tears can be found on the door posts and in the stairwells of more than one Kingdom center. It was my life, and it is my legacy.

Am I owed something? Probably not.

Have I made my own compensation package? Absolutely.

I reserve the right to sit on the front porch at Fairwood and look at the mountain. And, I still have the mantel.