Decendents of Immigrants Gathered on Gibson Avenue

It was the summer of 1975.  I was working as a seasonal employee at the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in St. Louis.  After several weeks with relatives, I rented a one-room apartment in an upstairs flat on Gibson Avenue.  That was my first experience living in a neighborhood that was culturally, racially, and economically diverse. 

Penelope Strousser, along with her husband Tom, owned the house and lived downstairs.  Upstairs were three one-room apartments that shared a hallway telephone and a common bath.  Tom Strousser had been hit on the head with a liquor bottle years before and was suffering from extreme dementia.  Penny took care of him at home.  He died that fall.

Penny, a master weaver, had her loom set up downstairs in the basement.  I would hear the loom's shuttle working late into the night.  Although blind, Penny wove magnificent rugs.  One, in particular, stands out in my memory.  Night after night, she worked to weave a rug as a Bicentennial project for the DeMenil Mansion in St. Louis.  Penny was Greek, a member of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church.  A photograph of the Patriarch hung on her wall, along with a crucifix.  She was devout and wise.  I recall being introduced to real Greek food that summer.  Gibson Avenue proved to be an important place in my formation.

This country kid relished those summer months on Gibson Avenue.  The street was always alive with activity.  Wagoner Memorial United Methodist Church was at the end of the block.  The Rev. Larry Shores was the young pastor in a congregation of twenty or so elderly members.  He was very energetic and honest in his ministry.  In that huge, cavernous sanctuary, this tiny congregation was, nevertheless, the Church of Jesus Christ.  Sadly, most members drove to Sunday worship from the suburbs.  There was a disconnect with the neighborhood.  Today, the church been transformed into a United Methodist social service ministry and homeless center.  The ministry has been transformed.  This, too, is the Church.

There were also resident African and Chinese Americans on Gibson Avenue.  There were medical students, who were attending Washington University School of Medicine and working at Barnes Hospital just across the interstate.  Forest Park was not far.  I used to ride my bicycle through the busy traffic to get to the park and ride the bike trails.  I was alone in the big city, but I seldom thought about that.  I was young and enjoyed the life.  I was surrounded by people--all God's children.  Our ancestors had come from other countries.  We all were at home on Gibson Avenue.

I think of immigrant communities today on this Columbus Day.  My prayer is that those arriving now will find a Gibson Avenue, a house like Penny's, and a church like Wagoner Memorial UMC, places that are home, where all are welcome, and where all have the opportunity to enjoy a good life together.  May it be so!

For this, . . . and so much more, I am grateful to God.