by Ed Bethune
As the performance progressed, we realized that this circus was a family operation. The ringmaster was the barker who hustled the crowd. He doubled as the dog trainer and elephant tender. The equestrians doubled as acrobats and we recognized one of the acrobats as the woman who had sold us our ticket to the circus. The clowns and band members doubled as stage-hands, removing and setting up props for the next act. The same familiar faces kept showing up in different roles, and the same animals showed up in all the acts. Lana and I noticed familial resemblances and figured there were no more than eighteen people in the entourage. The funny thing is we enjoyed the little French circus more than the big name extravaganzas—Barnum & Bailey and Ringling Brothers—that came to Little Rock when we were kids.
We left Bayeux with warm memories and caught a train to Béthune, France. We seldom booked ahead, so when we got off the train we went to the first small hotel that looked presentable. The man who greeted us spoke no English so we had a bit of trouble with the formalities. He seemed to be asking me for my name so I kept saying, “Bethune. My name is Bethune.” He, exasperated, kept responding, “No—not city—nom!” It finally occurred to me that he thought I was giving him the name of the town instead of giving him my name. I dug out my passport and showed it to him and he laughed. “Ah, Béthune (Bay-Tune) is nom,” he said in broken English. We all laughed, and to humor him I pointed to myself and said my name as he had, “Ed Bay-Tune.” He seemed pleased that he had taught me how to pronounce my own name, so we quickly finished the checking-in process. It was the second time in a month a stranger told me I did not know how to say my own name. The Scots told me I mispronounced Ruthvin, my middle name. It is a common name in Scotland. They put a heavy, guttural emphasis on the first syllable making it sound like “Rough.” My parents taught me to make the first syllable sound like “Ruth.” I liked the manly sound that the Scots give to Ruthvin. I might have used my middle name more if I had known how to pronounce it.
I am not especially fond of the French pronunciation of Béthune, but I used “Bay-Tune” for the rest of our time there because the French like it that way. Que Sera, Sera.
All roads lead to Paris, but before going there we took a brief detour to Neufchâtel-en-Bray, a town famous for its French Neufchâtel, a soft, crumbly, mold-ripened cheese that dates back to the sixth century. We tried the cheese and it was fantastic but the main reason for our visit was to see the Béthune River, a quaint stream that runs through the town. We had lunch by the river and I collected a few river rocks to take home as a reminder of the day.
Finally, we arrived in Paris. We stayed on Ile Saint-Louis a few blocks from Quai de Béthune, a waterfront street where Madam Marie Curie lived when she developed her theory of radioactivity. We now had three French connections to my surname: Quai de Béthune in Paris, the Béthune River in Neufchatel, and the city of Béthune in Normandy. We began to think there might be something to the belief that the Bethune lineage started in France and migrated to Scotland after the Norman Conquest in 1066. The possibility was interesting, but it would take a lot of research to prove, or disprove, the connection.
Our Paris visit started with the obligatory tours: Musée Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, Musée Rodin, Musée Orangerie, and other Paris treasures. In most cases, we were going over ground we had covered many times before, but who tires of seeing the magnificent artworks, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, or strolling along the Champs-Elysée? These marvels always stir the passion and warm the heart. But we soon ended the sightseeing and turned our attention to the parks of Paris.
Going to any park in Paris is a wonderful experience, but we did it as young French lovers do. First you choose a park, and on the way you stop at a delicatessen-style shop, known to the French as a charcuterie, to choose a fancy sandwich or salad or a cut of cheese. Upon entering the park, you scout around, take possession of a nice grassy spot and spread your blanket. Then, you lie down and open a bottle of good French wine. When the spirit moves you, you dig into your sack of gastronomical delights. There is no greater joy on the face of the earth, although it helps to add a sweet from a boulangerie to the menu, and take a nap after lunch. We adopted the young lover technique as our own.
Much of our talk as we lounged about Paris was about our near-death experience on the high seas, especially the thirty-six hour jackhammering that finally caused me to surrender and adopt a God-centered worldview. I was finally on the right road with Lana, but ironically we kept running into Europeans headed in the opposite direction, toward a man-centered, secular worldview. The irony disturbed us. I wanted to scream at them in the way that Sergeant Lorres, my drill instructor in boot camp used to scream at me, “You people are going the wrong way—you should have been with us on Salute.”
I doubt it would have slowed them down. When we were on the Isle of Skye I had tried to discuss the issue of empty European churches with the old Scot at Clan Donald Center. It seemed to bother him but he did not want to talk about it, so he changed the subject to sheep dogs and sheep dog trials.
The subject of conflicting worldviews—sacred versus secular—intrigued us, perhaps because we had just been through a harrowing experience. We spent hours talking about our family and our future—all of which we would have missed if we had been lost at sea—but the empty church issue kept coming up. As a newly surrendered Christian, I was puzzled and I wanted answers. Fortunately, Lana was way ahead of me. She had studied the works of Francis Schaefer at Friday Group, Joanne Kemp’s weekly Bible study, and her understanding of the subject kept us on track. During our Paris visit, we found attitudes ranging from total adoption of a secular worldview, to total indifference. Only a few seemed determined to reverse the obvious trend. Beyond that, when we tried to pin down the cause for the trend, we stumbled. There were too many factors at play. The question would take more time and study.
Two decades later, the picture is clearer. The secular trend has escalated and so has our understanding of it. The great cathedrals of Europe still stand, the laws and culture still recognize the long history of Christianity, but the congregations are shrinking and organized religion has lost its power and influence. Many people, particularly young Europeans, say they are religious, but it is something they are doing on their own. Their preference is to treat religion as a personal matter because that allows them to choose what they wish to believe, a sure formula for self-centeredness. In any cathedral, on any given Sunday, there are few people in the pews, and those who are there have grey hair. It is not a good sign for the future. Scholars propound a range of explanations. Secularists argue that religion gives way when society advances. They contend that the spiritual basis of organized religion cannot stand against the logic of modern intellectual and scientific developments. Other thinkers agree that something is happening but deny that religion is failing, pointing to places where organized religions, not necessarily Christianity, are growing and prospering, the clearest example being the spread of Islam in Europe.
The differing theories are interesting but the big picture is undeniable: Christianity is facing serious challenges from secular forces that are determined to push religion into a corner.
The secularists have made greater headway in Europe but their contentions are taking root in America, gaining ground on many fronts. The secular mindset has insinuated itself into our politics, movies, schools, music, television—virtually every aspect of modern life. Consider, for example, the widespread practice of scheduling sports activities for children on Sunday morning—soccer matches, swim meets, track meets, and other secular events. It is the modern way and, regrettably, very few parents resist. Left-wing politicians openly attack the “Christian Right” and “Religious Fundamentalists,” spreading demeaning messages with mass mailings, and on television and radio with paid advertising. A more troublesome assault occurs when a religious issue is the subject of a news story. The media, always searching for controversy, report the Christian view and then report a contrary, secular view.
Then, all too often, the media—professing fairness—will bias the report in favor of secularism.
Christians have the tools to compete and win this struggle, but we must remember our mission is not to win intellectual arguments. We have a higher calling. It is our duty—in all seasons, fair and foul—to spread the Gospel. It is a simple story. The logic of it, the ultimate proof of it, comes from the way believers live, by the example we set.
Long before the birth of Christ, the Chinese general, Sun Tzu said, “Know the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril. When you are ignorant of the enemy but know yourself, your chances of winning or losing are equal. If ignorant both of your enemy and of yourself, you are certain in every battle to be in peril.” We have had fair warning.
We are always sad when it is time to leave Paris but we wanted to stop in Edinburgh on our way back to Arkansas. When we were there in June, we learned that Edinburgh is the place to be in August.
In the wake of World War II, the Scots decided to hold an annual festival in August to enliven and enrich cultural life in Europe. In the beginning, The Edinburgh International Festival promoted opera, classical music, dance and theatre and participation was by invitation only. It was a huge success but as the years went by, free-spirited artists began to present unofficial performances. The public loved the impromptu unofficial events, referring to them as the “Fringe” events. By the time we attended the Edinburgh International Festival, the unofficial Fringe performances were organized and immensely popular. Nowadays, due to popular demand, there is a third tier of performances called, “Beyond the Fringe.”
On any given day in August, there are hundreds of performances—Official, Fringe, and Beyond the Fringe. In a three-week period, we saw the Bolshoi ballet, the opera Faust, an all-Scot performance of Treasure Island, and the Military Tattoo at Edinburgh Castle. We also saw scores of Fringe events, most of which were good. We took in some events Beyond the Fringe, some great and some not so great. To complete our overdose of festival, we attended several pipe-band competitions in Princes Street Gardens, a beautiful park in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle.
The festival ended on September 2, and we headed back to Glasgow to spend two nights with Ian and Anne Grant before catching our return flight to the United States. Our sabbatical was over. Our European odyssey through Scotland, England, and France gave us a chance to sort out our experiences and get ready for our return to Searcy, where we hoped to rekindle the life we had before my election to Congress.
50
GOING HOME TO SEARCY
East and West, Home is best.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon
The rule of thumb in the modern world seems to be onward and upward. It is a good rule but we were tired of the rat race. We hungered to go back to Searcy, to be with our friends and close to our extended family. I wanted to reopen my old law office, hang out my shingle, and be the country-lawyer I was before providence took me to Washington, D.C. I had no clients and we were just about out of money, but none of that scared us. We had started from scratch before and we could do it again.
On September 10, 1990, we arrived in Searcy, home at last. We used the back room of my law office building as a temporary residence, and set up the front rooms for my law practice. I was open for business on September 12, 1990. I did everything I could to get the word out that we were back home and that I was ready to take new clients. The local paper and radio station ran stories of our return and I spent several days going to all the coffee shops and lunch places telling everyone that I was open for business and that I intended to handle all cases, large and small, just as I had before I went to Congress. I had high expectations. People knew me because I had represented them in Congress for six years, and I had a good reputation due to my successful record as a prosecuting attorney and general practitioner. I figured it would only take a couple of weeks to rebuild my practice and develop a positive cash flow. To my great surprise, it took much longer. The other lawyers in town were getting many new cases that would have come to me in the old days. That puzzled me so I began asking people why they did not ask me to handle their cases. I got a variety of answers, but the most common response was, “Gee, Ed, I didn’t think you would handle anything that small.” I readjusted my expectations. The only way I could overcome the mindset that I was not interested in the small stuff was to be patient and let the people see me handling run-of-the-mill legal work. Soon people saw that I was not “too good” to take their case and my business flourished. By December, we were confident enough that we bought a house that backed up to the Searcy Country Club golf course. We were back. All was well.
Returning was, for us, the right thing to do. We wanted to sort out all we had learned and experienced in high politics and on the high seas. Living in Searcy and rekindling the shared memories we had with old friends would give us that perspective. By the spring of 1991 we were back in the groove; we were ordinary Searcians once again.
We rejoined the First United Methodist Church of Searcy and settled into the comfortable routines of small town life.
As a newly surrendered Christian, I was amazed to discover that I was like a newborn baby. Before I surrendered my will—really surrendered—I thought I had a fair understanding of the Gospel and how it applied to my life. What a fool I was. Surrender is just the first step of a long journey. For much of my life I was so self-centered that I could only see the Bible as an important collection of beautiful stories and poetic thoughts, just a roadmap showing a good way to live. Now, with God in the center of my life, the same Bible was making perfect sense to me. I now saw Christianity as a comprehensive, consistent way to live, a worldview for the ages.
Nevertheless, it was apparent that I had a lot to learn, so it was good that we were home. I would have time for learning and introspection and I was close to Mother. It was time for the two of us to talk.
I had reached a new and different place in my life, and I was excited to tell Mother about it. I was also eager to go back in time and learn more about her childhood, her life with my father, and my own childhood. Seldom had we talked about our spiritual lives, our beliefs—it was not the Vermilye way.
51
MOTHER
A mother’s love is indeed the golden link that binds youth to
age; and he is still but a child, however time may have furrowed
his cheek, or silvered his brow, who can yet recall, with a softened
heart, the fond devotion or the gentle chidings
of the best friend that God ever gives us.
Christian Nestell Bovee
In the 1980s, Mother became a celebrity. She first attracted attention when I was in Congress and we were dealing with the energy issue. There were long lines for gasoline at the filling stations, energy prices were climbing, and I was deeply engaged in formulating a national energy policy.
Energy conservation became a big political issue, so I decided to take a team of energy experts to Mother’s house so that they could look it over and propose ways for her to lower her gas and electric bills. My idea for the well-publicized event was to help people in the Second District understand that there are many ways to conserve energy.
The experts spent an entire morning going from the attic to the cellar making notes about insulation, appliance use, caulking, lighting, heating and cooling. As they worked, they interacted with Mother to find out what she was doing to save energy. Soon, she was telling them more than they were telling her. She told them that she had never had air conditioning and showed them how she used a low energy attic fan and a variety of window openings to create a strong draft, pulling air from cool shady spots into the house. She told them how she did not have a clothes-dryer because she had always hung her laundry out to dry in the sun and she did not own a dishwasher because she washed her dishes in the sink. She told them how she always turned out the lights when she left a room, and so on. She was putting on a show and the media loved it. Then, caught up
in the excitement, Mother started bragging that her most recent electric bill was only $16 and her gas bill was $6.80. Alarms went off in my politically attuned head. If she was exaggerating, it could be embarrassing. I pulled her aside and suggested she find her latest bills so we could correct the record if necessary. She said it would take too much time, but I insisted. She was not pleased with me, but she did locate the gas bill. It was $6.80. I asked if it was low because the prior month’s bill had been too high, or something like that. By now, Mother was upset with me, and said, “No, Edwin! It was lower.” She then showed me the previous month’s bill. It was for $6.20. The experts were astounded, I was mad at myself for doubting her, and the media was lapping it up. Mother’s tricks for saving energy got more coverage than the recommendations of the experts, although they had much good advice for people who were not as frugal as Mother.
In 1989, Ned Perme, the weather reporter at Channel 7, KATV, heard that Mother was an extraordinary gardener. I do not know how the word got around about Mother’s green thumb, but I am not surprised that it did. Mother could grow anything, and she seldom did it in a conventional way. She was always inventing a new arbor, a new technique for planting, watering, fertilizing, weeding, or harvesting. She occasionally planted flowers, but her focus was vegetables. It was the Vermilye way, the practical way. Each winter, she would make what she called, “My schematic,” a drawing of what she intended to do for her next garden. She could pack more information into her schematic than one could find in the Farmer’s Almanac. She loved to talk about her garden, and using her schematic, she would tell about the “1990 model Big Boy Tomato,” or the “1991 model butterbean,” or “the Burpee Speckled Lima.” Her garden was a work of art, perfect in every respect. On the side closest to her house, there was a small plaque with the verse: “He who works in a garden, works hand in hand with God.”