Intimacy
Stories
Contents
"Intimacy" by C. David McKirachan
"You've Got Connections" by C. David McKirachan
"Waiting in Faith" by Peter Andrew Smith
Intimacy
by C. David McKirachan
John 17:1-11
On so many levels, my father has been my model for ministry and, come to think of it, for living. Now let’s not forget that without my mother, the great communicator and manipulator, he would have never become the model for anything. His absence allowed the space to be colored in with glowing shades of power and compassion. But truth be told, he spent more time at work than he did at home, and though he came home almost every evening for dinner, he worked in the yard, season and weather not factors that seemed important, sat at the head of the table, protected by awe and assumed importance of his authority (which he rarely demonstrated), and retired to the wing chair in the living room (if he didn’t have a meeting), smoked his pipe beside the fire and read, listening to the Victrola scratch out Bach or Beethoven. As a result I had to get to know my father over years of following him around and watching and listening.
I learned to follow him outside while he worked, into the weather, appropriately suited up. He taught me to chop wood, paint the house, trim bushes, move dirt for Mother’s flowers and vegetables, and listened to him talk about stars and history and myths and explorers and writers and artists and philosophers from Socrates to Kant to Marx. I understood some of it but mostly I loved to be with him and share his world.
I think he was a lonely man. He rarely spoke of himself or his own past or his own thoughts and dreams. He lived in a world of grand ideas and concepts and was excited by the giants who had come before. He loved the Bible and would get excited about how Paul used one Greek word as a hinge to swing an idea, as he spoke to people about the mysteries of faith. I wondered sometimes why he never played or hung out with his friends. People like Eugene Carson Blake and Jim McCord would come by to hang out and were regulars at family events. But though they were almost as smart as he was, they did more giggling with Mom than him.
I realized when he read and studied and thought, when he wrote and preached and taught, he was hanging out with his friends, Paul, and John and Matthew and Luke. (He found Mark a bit abrupt and a bit blatant in his antagonism toward the other Apostles). He had conversations with Socrates and Aristotle and Dewey and Locke and Jefferson (he thought Jefferson wasted himself with his lack of focus). Kant was his mentor, though he didn’t like some of the conclusions the giant came to. He liked Calvin, but considered him too caught up in his prejudices and Luther had so much going for him until he got side tracked by the politicians.
He loved stories. When he had time, he’d read out loud to me and anybody that would listen, Robert Louis Stevenson, Dumas, Poe, Twain, and Melville. Later we’d take turns reading The Agony and the Ecstasy, Exodus, Out of Africa, Heart of Darkness, good stuff.
He had no rock stars until Martin Luther King Jr. came on the scene. Daddy loved the way he thought and acted, considering Dr. King’s bibliography for his quotes, absolutely elegant and graceful and powerfully employed. My brother worked with Dr. King and I know Daddy would have loved to be introduced. That’s when I realized he was shy. And that’s when I realized how brave he was.
The slashed tires in our driveway, the special delivery notes special delivered via rock-through-window, the names I got called at school that included him, and his unwavering calmness and willingness to interpret this stuff to me, never once apologizing, never once trying to explain away the stress, but speaking of the great witnesses to social justice throughout history and reminding me that faith and courage were gifts given to us so that we could be more like our Lord.
I think the only thing he feared was my mother leaving him. She was his Kadish Barnea, his promised land (I think he got that from her). But he didn’t understand intimacy. I don’t think Kant did either. When it came to all that stuff he was oblivious. She had it rough, though she loved him with an almost frightening fire.
He told me once that in the ministry we couldn’t afford to have friends. That seemed weird. He read The Last Temptation of Christ three times before he was even willing to comment on it. It disturbed him. But he could see the truth in it. Paradox was rough for him. And it seemed Katsenzakis hit too close to the mark of my father’s paradox.
Webster’s defines intimacy as “Close union or combination pertaining to the inmost or essential nature.”
Jesus, our model for living as well as ministry prayed for his disciples because he loved them. For all his overarching, grand and godly view of the universe, these few meant the world to him. He ‘knew’ them. Top to bottom, strength to weakness, in power and in weakness. He cared about them, deeply.
I felt sorry for my father, even with all his glorious mind and indefatigable willingness to confront the demons of the day. Toward the end he told me that he wished he had done his ministry more like mine. I laughed, “You mean the run in forty seven different directions all at the same time and function on a wing and a prayer model?”
“No, the get close to people model.” He looked at me shaking his head. “I just didn’t know how.” I remember taking his hand and looking him in the eye, as he taught me, “You taught me how to be a witness to the Risen Christ and to see the power and grace imbedded in great and beautiful ideas. And I’m not the only one.” So we sat there holding hands for a while on the bench overlooking the beach at the end of Sixteenth Street in Surf City. We stood up together and he hugged me. It was over quickly, but it left me amazed and happy for him, and me. Then he breathed deeply and looked up, “We better get going. Mother will have dinner on the table.” That was code for ‘We’ll be in trouble.’ We held hands all the way back to the house.
* * *
You've Got Connections
by C. David McKirachan
1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
The first six years of my academic life were spent in private schools. They were local institutions and probably considered it a good PR gambit to have the son of the pastor of the big church in town attending. I found out later that the public schools in the area weren’t very top notch and my parents figured I’d do better hobnobbing with the upper crust.
But public schools were part of our family’s belief system. So in seventh grade, I mainstreamed. It was a bit of a shock. My first school buddy was Virgil. I hadn’t noticed he was black. Others did. That’s when I was introduced to the early morning excursions into threats, extortion, broken pencils, and petty larceny. The ‘White Boys,’ that was the name of the gang, put me on their list. I found it scary, but mostly ridiculous. I told my mother I’d handle it and proceeded to make an alliance with the Jewish kids down the block. They had a brother on the high school basketball team. No more broken pencils.
It never occurred to me that there was anything special about operating along such lines. We were people who did not deserve this kind of treatment, not because we were white or black or Jewish or smart or well off or even especially good. Everybody deserved the right to walk to school in peace, without being called names, or having their pencils broken.
The thing that mystified me was why would anyone degrade themselves by using such strangely illogical and impotent categories to define themselves? I’d experienced bullies before, but organizing a group to push people around seemed strangely sad and further to give themselves a title, a group identification that was so random was downright silly.
So I asked the font of all knowledge. My parents found my query delightful. My mother went to this passage (I think that’s where I began my appreciation of Paul in his debates with Peter). She didn’t want me to get my nose broken, but she told me that if I was going to call myself Christian, then I needed to expect to get treated like he’d been.
My father’s tack was more along the lines of figuring out a way to help the poor misguided youth who’d been reduced to using threats and violence to find security. As a victim of these poor misguided youth, I liked my mother’s approach. It made me feel like I not only had the basketball team behind me, but I had was representing Christ, even when, or especially when people treated me like people had treated him.
When I expressed this attitude, my opinion was greeted with a smile, and an invitation to refer to chapter five. “Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God...” and I was warned not to get too uppity about being on Christ’s team. Christ loves all of us, even the ‘White Boys’ and if I was going to stay close to him, I’d better use that as a model, while I was having confidence that getting tossed into snow drifts wasn’t something to be upset about.
I liked the team thing better. Teams got to win. And being holier than thou was the ultimate put down in the face of idiots. I thought it might be a good idea if Virgil and I went to Hebrew School to cement the alliance. Jesus wouldn’t mind, after all he was Jewish too.
The Bible study went on from there. I got confirmed instead of having a Bar mitzvah. But Virgil and I did go to our playmates’ celebration, and we did learn to say a few things in Hebrew that weren’t part of the curriculum. My father heard me saying one of the phrases and reminded me that our Lord spoke Hebrew too.
Oops.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
* * *
Waiting in Faith
by Peter Andrew Smith
Acts 1:6-14
Jack swung the bat and heard the ball hit the fence behind him. He stepped back and took a few practice swings to loosen himself up. Then he returned to the plate and nodded to Andrew on the pitcher’s mound. His friend wound up and threw the ball. Jack felt the bat connect and heard the crack but the ball went foul. He stepped back again and took off his helmet.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “I’m not having much luck today.”
“Hey a couple of weeks ago you were missing all of them.” Andrew headed toward the bench. “Now you’re at least getting a piece of some of them.”
“I should be doing better,” Jack said. “It’s still not good enough.”
“You are doing better.” Andrew pointed to the outfield. “At least two of those would have gotten you to base.”
Andrew rummaged through his bag and pulled out his water bottle. Jack grabbed his from below the bench.
“I guess.” Jack wiped his brow with a towel. “I just don’t know if I’m going to be ready for the season.”
“You’re practicing and getting better.” Andrew put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s what’s important.”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know it feels like I should be doing more.”
“I’m not sure what more you could be doing,” Andrew said. “By the way, we missed you at youth group last week.”
Jack drank from his water bottle. “What happened?”
“We heard about the apostles starting to build the church. They were some incredible people who did incredible things.”
“I guess. They had it easy though.”
“Easy? They faced jail and persecution and most of them were martyred.”
“Yeah, but they knew what they were supposed to do,” Jack said. “It must have been an exciting time to live back then and know what to do in faith.”
“What do you mean?”
“The whole world needed to hear the gospel so they knew they were supposed to spread the message to everyone. They set up congregations, brought thousands to know God, and well they built the church.” Jack sighed. “There doesn’t seem much left for us to do but wait for Jesus to come again.”
“I kind of think we are supposed to do exactly what they were supposed to do.” Andrew drank from his water bottle. “We’re called to follow Jesus and be his people in the world.”
“I know and that all sounds good but how do we know exactly what we’re supposed to do?”
“We have to wait for the Holy Spirit to show us what we’re to do,” Andrew said. “I know God still has much that need to have happen in this world. Lots of people have never seen the gospel at work and heaven knows there’s lots of outreach for us to do.”
“I guess but waiting for the Holy Spirit is boring.”
“Boring?” Andrew tilted his head to one side. “Are you bored that baseball is going to start again?”
“No way. I’m excited.”
“Then why would you say that it’s boring to wait on God?”
“There’s nothing to do but sit around in our churches until God reveals what’s next for us. Waiting is boring. ”
Andrew laughed. “You think that is what waiting in faith or waiting on God is about?”
“Sure.” Jack frowned. “What else would it be?”
Andrew waved his hand at the ball field. “Waiting on God is like this.”
“Like baseball?”
“No, it’s like waiting for the season to start.” Andrew shook his head. “Do you just come to the field and think about playing?”
“No way. I’d be a lousy player if I did. I’m practicing and getting better so when the time comes I’m the best I can be.”
“It’s the exact same way in faith. We pray, we study, we serve and as a result we learn and grow so that when God calls us we’re ready to go.”
Jack rubbed his chin. “So waiting on God is kind of like practising before we’re called to act?”
Andrew smiled. “Exactly.”
“That makes it more interesting than just sitting and waiting, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
Jack put his water bottle down and tossed the ball to Andrew. “Are you ready to help me practice?”
“Sure.” Andrew got up. “Are you going to be at youth group this week?”
Jack put on his helmet. “Absolutely because heaven knows I need practice being a follower of Jesus.”
Andrew laughed and headed out toward the mound. “We all do, my friend, we all do.”
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada currently serving St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things are Ready (CSS) a book of lectionary based communion prayers and a number of stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 28, 2017, issue.
Copyright 2017 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Intimacy" by C. David McKirachan
"You've Got Connections" by C. David McKirachan
"Waiting in Faith" by Peter Andrew Smith
Intimacy
by C. David McKirachan
John 17:1-11
On so many levels, my father has been my model for ministry and, come to think of it, for living. Now let’s not forget that without my mother, the great communicator and manipulator, he would have never become the model for anything. His absence allowed the space to be colored in with glowing shades of power and compassion. But truth be told, he spent more time at work than he did at home, and though he came home almost every evening for dinner, he worked in the yard, season and weather not factors that seemed important, sat at the head of the table, protected by awe and assumed importance of his authority (which he rarely demonstrated), and retired to the wing chair in the living room (if he didn’t have a meeting), smoked his pipe beside the fire and read, listening to the Victrola scratch out Bach or Beethoven. As a result I had to get to know my father over years of following him around and watching and listening.
I learned to follow him outside while he worked, into the weather, appropriately suited up. He taught me to chop wood, paint the house, trim bushes, move dirt for Mother’s flowers and vegetables, and listened to him talk about stars and history and myths and explorers and writers and artists and philosophers from Socrates to Kant to Marx. I understood some of it but mostly I loved to be with him and share his world.
I think he was a lonely man. He rarely spoke of himself or his own past or his own thoughts and dreams. He lived in a world of grand ideas and concepts and was excited by the giants who had come before. He loved the Bible and would get excited about how Paul used one Greek word as a hinge to swing an idea, as he spoke to people about the mysteries of faith. I wondered sometimes why he never played or hung out with his friends. People like Eugene Carson Blake and Jim McCord would come by to hang out and were regulars at family events. But though they were almost as smart as he was, they did more giggling with Mom than him.
I realized when he read and studied and thought, when he wrote and preached and taught, he was hanging out with his friends, Paul, and John and Matthew and Luke. (He found Mark a bit abrupt and a bit blatant in his antagonism toward the other Apostles). He had conversations with Socrates and Aristotle and Dewey and Locke and Jefferson (he thought Jefferson wasted himself with his lack of focus). Kant was his mentor, though he didn’t like some of the conclusions the giant came to. He liked Calvin, but considered him too caught up in his prejudices and Luther had so much going for him until he got side tracked by the politicians.
He loved stories. When he had time, he’d read out loud to me and anybody that would listen, Robert Louis Stevenson, Dumas, Poe, Twain, and Melville. Later we’d take turns reading The Agony and the Ecstasy, Exodus, Out of Africa, Heart of Darkness, good stuff.
He had no rock stars until Martin Luther King Jr. came on the scene. Daddy loved the way he thought and acted, considering Dr. King’s bibliography for his quotes, absolutely elegant and graceful and powerfully employed. My brother worked with Dr. King and I know Daddy would have loved to be introduced. That’s when I realized he was shy. And that’s when I realized how brave he was.
The slashed tires in our driveway, the special delivery notes special delivered via rock-through-window, the names I got called at school that included him, and his unwavering calmness and willingness to interpret this stuff to me, never once apologizing, never once trying to explain away the stress, but speaking of the great witnesses to social justice throughout history and reminding me that faith and courage were gifts given to us so that we could be more like our Lord.
I think the only thing he feared was my mother leaving him. She was his Kadish Barnea, his promised land (I think he got that from her). But he didn’t understand intimacy. I don’t think Kant did either. When it came to all that stuff he was oblivious. She had it rough, though she loved him with an almost frightening fire.
He told me once that in the ministry we couldn’t afford to have friends. That seemed weird. He read The Last Temptation of Christ three times before he was even willing to comment on it. It disturbed him. But he could see the truth in it. Paradox was rough for him. And it seemed Katsenzakis hit too close to the mark of my father’s paradox.
Webster’s defines intimacy as “Close union or combination pertaining to the inmost or essential nature.”
Jesus, our model for living as well as ministry prayed for his disciples because he loved them. For all his overarching, grand and godly view of the universe, these few meant the world to him. He ‘knew’ them. Top to bottom, strength to weakness, in power and in weakness. He cared about them, deeply.
I felt sorry for my father, even with all his glorious mind and indefatigable willingness to confront the demons of the day. Toward the end he told me that he wished he had done his ministry more like mine. I laughed, “You mean the run in forty seven different directions all at the same time and function on a wing and a prayer model?”
“No, the get close to people model.” He looked at me shaking his head. “I just didn’t know how.” I remember taking his hand and looking him in the eye, as he taught me, “You taught me how to be a witness to the Risen Christ and to see the power and grace imbedded in great and beautiful ideas. And I’m not the only one.” So we sat there holding hands for a while on the bench overlooking the beach at the end of Sixteenth Street in Surf City. We stood up together and he hugged me. It was over quickly, but it left me amazed and happy for him, and me. Then he breathed deeply and looked up, “We better get going. Mother will have dinner on the table.” That was code for ‘We’ll be in trouble.’ We held hands all the way back to the house.
* * *
You've Got Connections
by C. David McKirachan
1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
The first six years of my academic life were spent in private schools. They were local institutions and probably considered it a good PR gambit to have the son of the pastor of the big church in town attending. I found out later that the public schools in the area weren’t very top notch and my parents figured I’d do better hobnobbing with the upper crust.
But public schools were part of our family’s belief system. So in seventh grade, I mainstreamed. It was a bit of a shock. My first school buddy was Virgil. I hadn’t noticed he was black. Others did. That’s when I was introduced to the early morning excursions into threats, extortion, broken pencils, and petty larceny. The ‘White Boys,’ that was the name of the gang, put me on their list. I found it scary, but mostly ridiculous. I told my mother I’d handle it and proceeded to make an alliance with the Jewish kids down the block. They had a brother on the high school basketball team. No more broken pencils.
It never occurred to me that there was anything special about operating along such lines. We were people who did not deserve this kind of treatment, not because we were white or black or Jewish or smart or well off or even especially good. Everybody deserved the right to walk to school in peace, without being called names, or having their pencils broken.
The thing that mystified me was why would anyone degrade themselves by using such strangely illogical and impotent categories to define themselves? I’d experienced bullies before, but organizing a group to push people around seemed strangely sad and further to give themselves a title, a group identification that was so random was downright silly.
So I asked the font of all knowledge. My parents found my query delightful. My mother went to this passage (I think that’s where I began my appreciation of Paul in his debates with Peter). She didn’t want me to get my nose broken, but she told me that if I was going to call myself Christian, then I needed to expect to get treated like he’d been.
My father’s tack was more along the lines of figuring out a way to help the poor misguided youth who’d been reduced to using threats and violence to find security. As a victim of these poor misguided youth, I liked my mother’s approach. It made me feel like I not only had the basketball team behind me, but I had was representing Christ, even when, or especially when people treated me like people had treated him.
When I expressed this attitude, my opinion was greeted with a smile, and an invitation to refer to chapter five. “Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God...” and I was warned not to get too uppity about being on Christ’s team. Christ loves all of us, even the ‘White Boys’ and if I was going to stay close to him, I’d better use that as a model, while I was having confidence that getting tossed into snow drifts wasn’t something to be upset about.
I liked the team thing better. Teams got to win. And being holier than thou was the ultimate put down in the face of idiots. I thought it might be a good idea if Virgil and I went to Hebrew School to cement the alliance. Jesus wouldn’t mind, after all he was Jewish too.
The Bible study went on from there. I got confirmed instead of having a Bar mitzvah. But Virgil and I did go to our playmates’ celebration, and we did learn to say a few things in Hebrew that weren’t part of the curriculum. My father heard me saying one of the phrases and reminded me that our Lord spoke Hebrew too.
Oops.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
* * *
Waiting in Faith
by Peter Andrew Smith
Acts 1:6-14
Jack swung the bat and heard the ball hit the fence behind him. He stepped back and took a few practice swings to loosen himself up. Then he returned to the plate and nodded to Andrew on the pitcher’s mound. His friend wound up and threw the ball. Jack felt the bat connect and heard the crack but the ball went foul. He stepped back again and took off his helmet.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “I’m not having much luck today.”
“Hey a couple of weeks ago you were missing all of them.” Andrew headed toward the bench. “Now you’re at least getting a piece of some of them.”
“I should be doing better,” Jack said. “It’s still not good enough.”
“You are doing better.” Andrew pointed to the outfield. “At least two of those would have gotten you to base.”
Andrew rummaged through his bag and pulled out his water bottle. Jack grabbed his from below the bench.
“I guess.” Jack wiped his brow with a towel. “I just don’t know if I’m going to be ready for the season.”
“You’re practicing and getting better.” Andrew put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s what’s important.”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know it feels like I should be doing more.”
“I’m not sure what more you could be doing,” Andrew said. “By the way, we missed you at youth group last week.”
Jack drank from his water bottle. “What happened?”
“We heard about the apostles starting to build the church. They were some incredible people who did incredible things.”
“I guess. They had it easy though.”
“Easy? They faced jail and persecution and most of them were martyred.”
“Yeah, but they knew what they were supposed to do,” Jack said. “It must have been an exciting time to live back then and know what to do in faith.”
“What do you mean?”
“The whole world needed to hear the gospel so they knew they were supposed to spread the message to everyone. They set up congregations, brought thousands to know God, and well they built the church.” Jack sighed. “There doesn’t seem much left for us to do but wait for Jesus to come again.”
“I kind of think we are supposed to do exactly what they were supposed to do.” Andrew drank from his water bottle. “We’re called to follow Jesus and be his people in the world.”
“I know and that all sounds good but how do we know exactly what we’re supposed to do?”
“We have to wait for the Holy Spirit to show us what we’re to do,” Andrew said. “I know God still has much that need to have happen in this world. Lots of people have never seen the gospel at work and heaven knows there’s lots of outreach for us to do.”
“I guess but waiting for the Holy Spirit is boring.”
“Boring?” Andrew tilted his head to one side. “Are you bored that baseball is going to start again?”
“No way. I’m excited.”
“Then why would you say that it’s boring to wait on God?”
“There’s nothing to do but sit around in our churches until God reveals what’s next for us. Waiting is boring. ”
Andrew laughed. “You think that is what waiting in faith or waiting on God is about?”
“Sure.” Jack frowned. “What else would it be?”
Andrew waved his hand at the ball field. “Waiting on God is like this.”
“Like baseball?”
“No, it’s like waiting for the season to start.” Andrew shook his head. “Do you just come to the field and think about playing?”
“No way. I’d be a lousy player if I did. I’m practicing and getting better so when the time comes I’m the best I can be.”
“It’s the exact same way in faith. We pray, we study, we serve and as a result we learn and grow so that when God calls us we’re ready to go.”
Jack rubbed his chin. “So waiting on God is kind of like practising before we’re called to act?”
Andrew smiled. “Exactly.”
“That makes it more interesting than just sitting and waiting, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
Jack put his water bottle down and tossed the ball to Andrew. “Are you ready to help me practice?”
“Sure.” Andrew got up. “Are you going to be at youth group this week?”
Jack put on his helmet. “Absolutely because heaven knows I need practice being a follower of Jesus.”
Andrew laughed and headed out toward the mound. “We all do, my friend, we all do.”
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada currently serving St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things are Ready (CSS) a book of lectionary based communion prayers and a number of stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 28, 2017, issue.
Copyright 2017 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
