A different kind of Valentine: For the man who saw my heart when no one else did | Opinion

Today is Valentine’s Day.

In considering what was important to say on this day set apart for thoughts of tender devotion, I remembered a man who personified love. Not the romantic kind. No, his was a love that required work, selflessness and, yes, wisdom. His wasn’t easy love expressed in a moment of emotion. His love was the potent kind, expressed in strength and kindness, that came when needed.

His name was Nelson Gabbard.

It would be impossible for me to overstate the effect that Nelson had on me. Within the religious fellowship of which both Nelson and I were members, he empowered me to open my mouth and speak. He accomplished this in a patriarchal church that strictly limited women to working in the kitchen or teaching very young children.

Even now, 30 years later, it is difficult to recount how women in this fellowship were muzzled and controlled, their talents ignored, and denigrated. It seemed that we were looked upon as dangerous vipers who, if not kept tightly constrained, would bring the wrath of God down upon the church.

Opinion

As a young woman, when I married and then had two boys, I was completely in awe of the rules that were preached routinely. I accepted the “fact” that men were ordained to do God’s work and women were to be in silent subjection. This was rigidly enforced in every meeting, every position of leadership, every part of every worship service and in every classroom holding students older than 12.

We, as a family, attended church three times a week, every week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. We never missed.

When my boys were teenagers — in the mid-1980s — there was no class for them on Wednesday night because there was no teacher. Not one man in that congregation of some 300 members was willing or able to fill that position. Our boys, and the other youth who came because they were compelled to do so by their parents, roamed the hallways—bored and looking for an outlet for their pent-up energy.

I saw a need.

Realizing this need and hungry for the opportunity to use my knowledge and my rapport with youth, I attended an elders meeting and pointed out what was happening with the teens on Wednesday night. I asked these men, the shepherds of the Lord’s church, “Since no one has stepped forward to take responsibility for the high school class on Wednesday night, would you allow me to teach this group?”

In all other areas that impacted my family in the community and within the school systems, I was welcomed, valued and sought after to fill responsible positions chairing committees and overseeing projects, including the allocation of millions of dollars of tax revenue. The one exception was within the walls of the building purporting to honor the God who created me with exactly those abilities.

When I asked the elders if I could teach the Wednesday high school class, their immediate reaction could be paraphrased this way: “We could never allow that. Why, if we allowed you to teach that group, what would be next? We’d be on a slippery slope to destruction.”

My heart sank.

And then, Nelson spoke up.

He was a new elder, having just moved to Salinas from the Bay Area where he had served in a large church. I did not yet know Nelson, and he could not have known much about me.

But he took a chance on a young woman who wanted to step into a position no one else seemed to care anything about. Quietly listening to what little discussion there was, Nelson’s thinking was: “How can I help?”

In his calm, resonant voice, Nelson’s suggestion was simple.

“Gentlemen, what if I join Bunny in the classroom and we take on this responsibility together?” I recall him saying. “Would that alleviate the problem?”

The elders looked at each other and then, shrugging, agreed.

Nelson attended every meeting of the class. But he never, in any way, assumed to direct or subjugate me. He turned me loose to do what I was particularly gifted to do. There were maybe eight or 10 teens at first. It grew to 15, then 20, evened off at about 30 kids who couldn’t wait to get to class. They were on time. Eager. And they brought their friends.

Why?

Certainly not because a 40-year-old mom was teaching. They attended because the Bible truths were taught in a way that applied that book’s great wisdom directly to them, right where they were in their lives. No pontificating. No preaching. The truth was applied smack-dab where they needed it. And they gobbled it up.

I brought in the first woman diagnosed with AIDS in Monterey County. She was a registered nurse at the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula who had contracted AIDS while caring for society’s untouchables at the very beginning of that crisis. In so doing, she became one of the modern-day “lepers” whom she served.

I brought in a member of “Friends Outside,” a group that helped former felons from Soledad State Prison reintegrate into society. My recollection of what he told the kids was, “If you have it all — the mansion overlooking the ocean in Malibu, two Ferraris, a loving wife and two beautiful little girls — and a SWAT team breaks down your door because the money came from running guns into Central America, you learn very quickly that it wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth what I lost. I lost everything I loved.”

I brought in members from “Secondary Virginity,” a group that went out every Saturday night and offered prostitutes on the streets of Salinas the chance to have a different kind of life. Three girls, who were the same age as the kids in my class, spoke their truth. (I quote them and others from memory).

“You are sitting there thinking that sex is the most wonderful thing in the world,” the girls said. “But if you’re 13 years old and your father sells you to a pimp, you become just a piece of trash that is passed from man-to-man. When that happens to you, sex is cruel violence that you endure because you have absolutely no choice. And you cry. A lot.”

I brought in a young interracial couple. Black and white marriage was rare at the time. I told the youth that the Bible does not forbid interracial marriage. But, I asked them, “What complications might a mixed-race couple face?”

Tyrone and Kim were very candid. “Marriage is a challenge no matter what. When you add the issue of racial discrimination within your own family, as well as discrimination in the community at large, you pile challenge upon challenge. Both our families were heartbroken. They disowned us. We were alone.”

Then Kim added, “Our redemption, in the eyes of both families, was the birth of our two daughters. These guileless innocents did what we had been unable to do. They provided a way back — a path of peace and love. But it has been no picnic, and at times we still struggle.”

This class consumed me. I taught my heart out with those kids greedy for truth. And Nelson was there every minute of every session. He never preempted, never interrupted. He sat in the back of the room and gave each of us the gift of his presence. And on the rare occasion that he felt led to participate, he spoke words of wisdom of which he was uniquely capable.

Eventually, though, Nelson came to me and said, “Bunny, I’ve been living a lie by allowing the congregation to believe I’m teaching this group. I don’t want to participate in a lie any longer. We need to talk to the elders.”

We went to the elders.

In his grace-filled voice, Nelson told them, “Bunny has done all the teaching for these two years. She has brought a unique perspective that has revitalized stories these kids thought they already knew. I have learned right along with them. It’s time you recognized her calling to minister to these youth. It has been amazing for me to see their eyes opened to Bible truths laid bare before them in real life.”

The elders would not sanction me teaching the class on my own, and Nelson refused to authenticate their prevarication any longer.

The class ended. The kids drifted away. And I missed my close connection with a giant of the faith who quietly lived large. There were no small moments with Nelson. He saw something of value in me that had nothing to do with gender, age or education: He saw my heart.

Me? I answered a classified ad in the Salinas Californian. The Presbyterian Church down the street needed someone to head their children and youth ministry.

I got the job.