The Message From Titanic

“1,500 people went into the sea when Titanic sank from under us. There were twenty boats floating nearby, and only one came back. One. Six were saved from the water, myself included. Six, out of 1,500. Afterward, the 700 people left in the boats had nothing to do but wait... wait to die, wait to live, wait for an absolution, which would never come.”  -Rose, Titanic

            I recently watched James Cameron’s Titanic with my family. It was the first time I had seen it in six years or so. I routinely give my students a hard time about the movie, especially the girls who are all swoony over the love story between the nonexistent Jack and Rose. I tell them that Jack had to die, because in reality, a marriage between those two would have never worked out. Jack was a nice guy and all, and even honorable when given the opportunity. But he had to die heroically, sacrificially. Had they married, Rose would have gotten fed up with him rather quickly. She would have told him to get a real job instead of trying to eke out an existence drawing pictures. He would have gotten angry and called her a spoiled brat. But for those few, shining days aboard the Ship of Dreams, they saw the best of each other. Jack died to save Rose’s life, and she could carry that ideal of him with her forever. In that sense, it is indeed a beautiful love story.

            Real love stories are even better, though. To me, the love between the Strausses, who were only briefly shown in this version of the tale, would make a much better movie. I would love to see a film about them, about what they endured and overcame together over the course of fifty plus years of marriage. His refusal to get on a boat because he was a man,and her refusal to leave his side-that’s good stuff. It’s the real thing. I would be willing to bet that during all those years of marriage there were rough patches. There were hard times and arguments. Maybe they quarreled over silly things and then realized they were being stupid and made up, and he took her out to dinner. After so many years together, they were as one. There could be no separation. So they chose to go down with the ship, hands clasped, united. That’s love.

            As the ship was going down, families struggled to stay together. That’s what families are supposed to do. The band played on until the Boat Deck dipped under. They stayed at their post. That’s honor. The captain went down with his ship, as a good captain does. His body was never recovered. Meanwhile, the cowardly Bruce Ismay, president of the White Star Line, managed to slip onto a lifeboat and was saved-but for what? He was later so destroyed by the press and by his conscience that his health broke down and he died a lonely and haunted man. More first-class men were saved on that night than third-class children, because class distinctions trumped the rule of “Women and children first.” People justified their actions by talking about the chaos, the confusion, the cold. They defended themselves by saying that no one who was not actually there could possibly understand the terrible, intense horror. That is very true. Nevertheless, Benjamin Guggenheim and his butler when down “like gentlemen”, dressed in their evening dinner attire. John Jacob Astor, millionaire, also conducted himself like a man, going down with the ship after convincing his young, pregnant wife to get on a lifeboat. “You go and I’ll stay awhile.” Their Airedale, Kitty, was seen pacing the deck in bewilderment just before the ship sank, searching for her master…searching…

            It is these reports of heartbreak and heroism, of cowardice and class ,that make the story of the Titanic a source of endless fascination and speculation. There is debate as to what song was played at the last, while the band was still able to play. Nearer, My God, to Thee, certainly makes for the best story, and I prefer it myself, but the real point is that every band member died. They were people, real human beings with lives and families and friends. Every soul on that ship was a person. The 705 survivors, for the most part, preferred not to talk much about the experience. The last survivor, who was an infant when the ship went down, died not long ago. There are hundreds of untold stories, things that we will never know. Secrets and joys and sorrows. Desperation and wonder. They were all buried with the Titanic. The arrogance of those responsible, those who called it “The ship God Himself could not sink”, are reminders to us of the cost of that kind of pride. The courage of those who could have been saved but refused to leave loved ones or who simply followed God’s command of esteeming others better than themselves are reminders of that kind of selflessness. But there is one more message, one more lesson. It’s the thing that life always comes back to.Love.

            As the hundreds who were plunged into the icy waters of the Atlantic on that freezing April night began to realize that they were doomed, that they were dying, as they ceased to struggle and accepted their fate, they began calling out to one another across the dark, merciless sea. Eyewitness accounts stated that there was one thing repeated over and over, to friends, children, parents, husbands, wives. It was I love you. In the end, love is all that matters. It was what I whispered to my father as they took him away to surgery, and I knew deep in my soul that I would never see him again. It is what my husband tells our children and I every morning as he drops us off at school. It is what I tell my mother every time I talk to on the phone, before I hang up. I say it to my students, my sisters, my friends. I even say it to my dogs. Because you just never know what will happen at any given moment. Ships sink, even those said to be unsinkable. Accidents happen. Illnesses occur. Tragedies, big and small, may be just around the corner. We live in a world that, despite its incredible beauty and goodness, is sinful and fallen and yes, sometimes cruel.

            God Himself is not cruel. In Taylor Caldwell’s wonderful novel Tender Victory, young Jean, a victim of a World War II concentration camp who was kicked and beaten and may be a cripple for life, looks at his adoptive father and smiles sadly. “Yes, Papa. I understand. It is the world.” Jean has come to a saving knowledge of his Heavenly Father, of Christ’s atonement and great mercy, but he understands that the world does not see Him, that the world rejects His amazing Love. He saved us by His death because He knew there was no other way. We weren’t going to change on our own. We couldn’t. So he did Something. He did the craziest, most unimaginable thing there was. He suffered and died so that we could know Love. Those who died on Titanic that others might live were reflecting His sacrifice. If there is any purpose at all served by the Jack and Rose subplot of the film, it is Jack’s willingness to die for her.

            Without Jack and Rose, however, even without them, the truth of the real story still shines. At the very end, those who died knew that all you need is love. John Lennon understood that. I don’t know if the Beatles realized the importance of that message-but maybe they did. I believe it is built into all of us, this desire for Something, this craving for Love. I hope that each of the 705 survivors of Titanic went on to live lives that were successful-not by the narrow view and definition that we often have of “success”, but that they found fulfillment, that they found God-that they found Love.

            “He saved me, in every way that a person can be saved.” Rose said this of Jack. He saved her from a life of meaninglessness and shallowness, and then he saved her physically. So it is with Jesus. He saves us in every way, so that when we leave this life, there is before us Eternity. But what we stay alive for, as John Keating says in Dead Poet’s Society, are things like romance, beauty, Truth. We live to love and be loved. As the Word says, “Make Love your aim.”

“For faith, hope, and love remain, these three, but the greatest of these is love.”

For Such a Time as This

 I saw a painting at the Montgomery Museum of Fine Arts. I, in fact, sat and stared at it for quite some time. It was speaking to my soul and I needed to listen. God is doing something in me right now and I’m not quite sure where He is going with it. I just have to keep trying to hear His voice as I move along through my life. I’ve had some significant stumbles in recent years, but it always comes back around to being still and KNOWING that He is God.  The painting, called "Foundation" depicts a teacher and some children in front of a schoolhouse, raising the American flag.Behind them are beautiful green rolling hills; above them, a vast, incredible sky.

                Friday morning, very early, my husband and I set out on one of the mini-trips that we sometimes get to take. Like most of the others, this was school-related as it involved a writing workshop in connection with the Alabama Book Festival. We have been to these workshops several times and they are always very informative as well as fun. This time, we decided to stay for the Book Festival since we had never been, and then hit the art museum before heading home as it is one of our happiest and most favorite places on earth.  I think that if we lived in Montgomery, we would probably go there every day. Just sitting and watching the ducks on the water is a balm to my spirit.

                The trip was uneventful but pleasant, as we rode in the half-dark and the fog and then saw the sun come up slowly on the horizon. Beautiful. We talked a lot-about our students, our own kids, fond memories of past road trips, books, music, God, life-the things we usually talk about when we get the chance to be alone together. We talked about where we are now as opposed to where we imagined we would be, and we talked of the future. We are not so old that we don’t still dream of possibilities. Both of us would love to become published writers, among other things, and, since we plan on living to be a hundred, we’ve still got over fifty years left.  We do not know what God has in store, but we love to think about it.

                After the workshop, we checked into the hotel and checked in with the kids, who were doing fine and seemed almost irritated about our concern. Usually when we go out of town my mom stays with them, but we thought it was time to leave them on their own. At nineteen, fifteen, and thirteen, they are certainly old enough, and they proved themselves to be just as self-sufficient and capable as we believed them to be. Is this not the goal we work toward as parents? Then why did I feel a pang of sadness?  We have spent the last seven and a half years teaching them the skills they need to be independent. They can cook, clean, do laundry, administer basic first aid, look after their pets and take care of each other. They are honest and honorable, and we have friends and family close by in case of a serious emergency. Still, when the youngest( who as recently as a year ago would say, “Daddy, call me tonight ,okay?” when she would go to spend the night with a friend )says, “What did you need, Dad?” when she answers her phone, you get the feeling that you are being outgrown.  So often now we get THE LOOK-not disrespectful, just amused and indulgent-that says, “Wow, Mom and Dad are weird.”

                We had dinner at the Bonefish Grill, a rare and delightful treat. As we were sitting there, two little girls, obviously sisters, probably ages about six and nine, came clomping past us, holding hands and giggling. They had on sparkly butterfly shirts and semi-high heels-the younger one’s shoes actually lit up-and you could tell they felt very sophisticated. I remembered the day-four years ago, maybe, or five-when Raina dressed up like a goblin and dressed Ally up like a fairy princess and they chased each other around in circles. I wonder what became of those costumes, and all their other dress-up clothes. The last time they cleaned their closet, I think they were fairly ruthless as to what they discarded. I wish now that I had asked.

                As I lay in bed on Friday night, listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the city, I remembered when I asked God to “send them”.  I didn’t mean just children of our own, but broken children-broken people-and I thought about how we were approached by a man in the parking lot earlier that evening. He said he was not a bum, which may or may not have been true, but asking him his life story is not in God’s command. We gave him what little cash we had. When someone says, “Will you help me?” there is no option, as far as I’m concerned.  This is my burden, to be my brother’s keeper, and I asked for it. I asked for it ten years ago, and even before that. I asked for it at the age of fifteen, when I stood up at a youth conference and dedicated my life to Christ and to Christian service, having no idea where that would lead. I guess I really asked for it at the age of seven, one Sunday afternoon in the car, when I invited Him in. I was a child, but God was already moving. How I now see that over the course of my life from that moment is another story for another time.

                The book festival was wonderful. We saw excerpts from a play called “Come Home,It’s Suppertime.” This included some good old gospel music, such as “I’ll Fly Away,” and a description of what  used to be known around here as “dinner on the ground”. It made me smile, but once again I felt God stirring my heart and I was transported, just for a moment, to that place where He takes me, a place that is familiar and homey and yet, I feel that I have never quite gotten there. Not all the way. He gives me glimpses of the Divine just to leave me hungry for it. The little girl sitting in the pew on Sunday morning wearing the itchy dress and the foot-pinching shoes always knew there was Something. It was not contained within the four walls and the stained-glass windows; it was so much more. I meet God in church, but I have been in churches where He was not truly welcome, only some man-made idea of Him.I have stood with my feet in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico and seen Him in the flight of a seagull, and I have experienced His Presence while working with underprivileged kids or teaching an English class. This Something that is called “salvation” is beyond what can truly be comprehended with our finite minds. It is knowing God.

                I was so grateful that I had the opportunity to visit with my friend Jim for a few minutes. He is now married and makes his home in Montgomery. We were good friends in high school, and he is among the handful of people, outside of my family, who has seen me at my worst.  My high school years were not my best time. I doubt they are anyone’s, really, and if they are, that’s kind of sad, because there are about 80 years to live after that is all over. Sure, I had fun sometimes, and I was blessed with amazing parents who saw me through the really dark places. It’s so funny that when I tell people I used to be shy, they actually laugh, and when I tell students that I went through an “emo” time, they shake their heads in disbelief. Actually, I was emo before it had a name. But through that time, I still had friends (I’m not sure why they put up with me) and, existentially despairing though my thoughts may have been, I did not doubt the existence of God. The great thing about Jesus is that He does not move, even when our faith wavers or we engage in behavior that is absolutely stupid. I try to assure my students of this because I know it from personal experience.  So, Jim-and Deb, and Heidi, and Kevin, and all of my friends-thanks for being there, then and now. All of you know that I am not like that anymore. I would say that I found God, but He was never lost to begin with-I was.

                After the book festival, we debated whether to try Korean or Vietnamese food. We went with Korean, deciding to try Vietnamese the next time around. We like to try different kinds of food, but when I saw that the menu had “hot dog stew”, I was a bit worried. Freddie, of course, played this up and nearly had me convinced that there was dog in it. I also refused to eat octopus. I have had calamari and am not fond of it; I figure octopus and squid are fairly interchangeable.  I ordered sliced beef that was seasoned with soy sauce and sugar, and it was divine. We also got a dumpling appetizer served with various sides-picked potatoes, pumpkin stems, yellow radishes-and all of it was delicious. Our waitress was a grandmotherly type who seemed miffed when we inquired about chicken soup. “Chicken soup is at Chinese restaurant. This Korean food,” she said sternly. Yes, ma’am.

                Our final stop in Montgomery was the art museum. One of the featured exhibits right now is Dale Nichols’ regional paintings. I was, as I said, mesmerized by “Foundation”. It was another one of those moments when I saw Truth so plainly. It sums up what I believe about life, about God, about the importance of education and the great responsibility teachers and parents have to provide the strong Foundation. Earlier, Jim had mentioned that he was considering the teaching profession. I told him that what keeps me as a teacher going is the handful of students who respond to my teaching, those moments when I know a student has “gotten it”.  When a kid says, “Reading To Kill a Mockingbird changed my life,” I am refueled for a month or more. The fulfillment isn’t in the daily grind or the petty details. It’s in the little moments. Life is pretty much like that anyway. The moments. Watching a little kid throw bread to the ducks and (gigantic) carp and turtles in the lake outside the museum. Rescuing one of those turtles who has gotten too brave and is sitting traumatized in the road. He was nearly crushed by the car ahead of us. Maybe the driver didn’t see him. I would rather think that than believe he didn’t care. We stopped and I got out. I have to care. I can’t help it. I put him back where he belonged. He is incapable of gratitude. Some people are, too. We just have to love them all anyway.

                On the way home we stopped at Priester’s and got milkshakes.Mine, of course, was double chocolate. I childishly wanted a stuffed owl. His name is Wol. We listened to the radio as we traveled and it seemed that every song was speaking directly to me. The Sidewalk Prophets reminded me that “I Want to Live Like That” and the Dave Crowder Band assured me of “How He Loves”. Forty-five minutes from home, an old country preacher came on and spoke for fifteen minutes about how Jesus is our best friend-and how we are supposed to tell the world this. This was the culmination of what I had been feeling for two days. This was what He wanted me to get from this trip. A reminder of Who He is, and of who I am supposed to be in Him. I was overwhelmed. I know that I cannot do this alone. When I asked God to “send them”, I was never assuming my own strength. He wasn’t either. He knows me. He sees me as I am, and loves me anyway.He sees who I can be in Him, and commands that I be His hands and feet and voice right here and now, on this planet, in every moment and to everyone and all of Creation.

“For such a time as this, I was placed upon the earth, to hear the voice of God and do His will, whatever it is/For such a time as this, for now and all the days He gives, I am here, I am here, and I am His, for such a time as this.”

               

The Wonder Years

“ I grew up in the suburbs. I guess most people think of the suburbs as a place with all the disadvantages of the city, and none of the advantages of the country, and vice versa. But, in a way, those really were the wonder years for us there in the suburbs. It was kind of a golden age for kids”. –The Wonder Years ,first episode

            I’ve been a bit nostalgic lately. I don’t know if it is because summer is coming, and summer brings back so many memories, or if it’s because my son will soon be graduating from high school, or what. But I randomly burst into songs that were popular when I was young, I keep watching 80s movies on my Kindle Fire, and I have this overwhelming desire to see my old friends. (My husband was a bit disturbed when I suddenly started singing “Purple Rain” a few days ago. I explained to him that it was connected to a particular memory and that I wasn’t going to try to explain it, because you had to be there. REALLY.) My kids love it when I tell stories that start out, “This one time…”  Often these stories are about really strange and seemingly forgettable events, like when my friend Jill and I had a candy fight at the movies, and accidentally hit an old man in the head with a sourball. That was back in the days when everyone in a small town knew everyone else, and sure enough, a neighbor witnessed the event, and my mom knew about it before I got home.The Internet has nothing on The Mom Connection. It was wireless, it was insidious, and it never failed to deliver.

            One of my favorite television shows ever is “The Wonder Years”. Almost every episode makes me cry. Watching Kevin Arnold navigate the dangerous and confusing waters of adolescence is something that everyone can relate to, I think. The show gets right to the heart of how it really feels to be young-how magical, how joyous, and how terrible it is. The peer and family relationships are perfectly captured. In particular the relationship between Kevin and his dad touches my heart. My dad was like Kevin’s in many ways, although he was much more affectionate and spent more time with us than Jack Arnold does with his family in the show. Still, when Kevin gets to spend the day at his father’s office and learns that Dad once had dreams that were never realized, it makes me weep. My dad had those dreams, too. I wonder how many other dads in my neighborhood, toiling away daily at jobs they rather despised in order to support the families they loved, wistfully recalled a time when they wanted to be “the captain of a ship”.  Whenever I read the poem “Those Winter Sundays”, I am struck by the last line: “What did I know, what did I know, of love’s austere and lonely offices?”  Those suburban dads, the ones we saw at neighborhood barbecues and sitting in church on Sundays with their families-did anyone really know them, even their own children?

            Our moms were an interesting group of Southern ladies. My mother once dragged me down the street by my pigtails, denouncing me as a “hooligan” because I had gotten into a fight with two other girls right in someone’s front yard. I don’t mean a verbal altercation; I mean an actual fistfight. I don’t recall what it was about, and I think we were probably pulling hair and scratching each other more than using our fists, but Mom was mortified. I suppose it would be considered “abuse” nowadays, this dragging of a child by her pigtails, but I honestly didn’t think anything about it and neither did anyone else. My mother was a ninja with a spatula. So was everyone else’s mother. Our moms were just our moms, and they loved us, and they were just as likely to hug and kiss us as they were to come after us with household items. I was never afraid of my parents beyond that basic healthy respect that kids should have for their parents. Furthermore, our teachers at the little elementary school we attended didn’t think twice about employing corporal punishment, and our parents supported them wholeheartedly. We loved our teachers, too. Our school and our churches were extensions of our homes. We were all in this together. Things are different now.

            I know things are different now because on a beautiful spring day, I see so few kids out on their bicycles. In the gang of kids I played with, the two constants were bicycles and dogs. You knew everyone by his bicycle and his dog. The dogs roamed freely and nobody got upset about it. The kids roamed freely and no one worried about getting kidnapped. The rules were simple on a summer day: check in occasionally and be home before dark. There were also rules of deportment regarding other people’s homes. Obey their house rules, respect their property, don’t fight, and, above all, don’t complain about the food. My brother once told my mom that she had no idea how many tuna sandwiches he choked down at the houses of his friends, because you always just smile and say thank you. To this day I am polite about food, hearing my mother’s voice in my head.

            Kevin Arnold and his friends and his siblings are confused about many things, but Kevin does know that “no matter where you go in the world, your father will always leave the light on for you.” Such a lovely truth. My father always left a light on for me. More often, he was waiting up. Sometimes I walked in the door and silently handed him my car keys, having broken curfew. I wasn’t always honest about where I had been, and he knew it. But no matter where I had been, I could always go home. I hope that my kids understand this. I believe they do. We may get angry, we may be disappointed, but we will always forgive them and welcome them back. This is a picture of our Heavenly Father. He always welcomes His children home, no matter what they have done. Kevin Arnold is fearful of the future, sometimes even uncertain about the present, but he is confident of his parents’ love for him, for his siblings, and for one another. As a teacher I see so many kids who do not have what I had, and it breaks my heart. Growing up, I had a safe haven. Laughter and love abounded there, even in the bad times. I wish everyone could have such a family, so fine a life as I had growing up. Imperfect and at times chaotic, still it was strong and it gave me the foundation I needed. It helped shape who I am.

            Thinking about my own wonder years, I see how many people influenced my life. Family, friends, teachers, pastors, neighbors-they are all a part of me. I will never forget those people and places. I will never forget the smell of the station wagon, the fireplace in winter, the way it feels to coast downhill on an old bicycle, the sweet sound of a children’s choir on Palm Sunday morning. I will never forget the gentle smile of my Sunday school teacher, Kay Banker, welcoming me to class, or the devilish grin of my friend Kevin DeRemer as we proceeded to mutilate the worm we were supposed to dissect in biology lab. This beautiful mosaic of memory inspires me and keeps me going as I live this part of my story with my own husband and children.

            “In my life, I’ve loved them all.”

That Saturday

Why should I gain from His reward? I cannot give an answer

But this I know with all my heart: His wounds have paid my ransom.”

                Tomorrow we will celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. On Thursday and Friday, His last supper with His disciples and His Passion were remembered.  But there is a day in between that I think about, too. I think a lot about that Saturday. This Saturday morning, my family is still sleeping and the house is so quiet. I think about the silence that must have prevailed on that Saturday as His disciples and His mother and all of those who loved Him wept and mourned. They knew what He had promised…but they saw Him die. They watched as He suffered on that cross. They heard Him cry out to the Father who had purposely turned His back.  They saw the love in His eyes as he said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

                I wonder what it must have been like to be there. In particular I wonder how His mother, Mary, must have felt. She had known from the day of His conception that this was the plan. As a young girl of fourteen or fifteen, she was chosen to bear and to raise the very Son of God. For thirty-three years she must have lived with the shadow of that Cross always before her. I cannot say with any real conviction that I could willingly give up my son. The very thought of losing him makes me feel a profound sense of horror and grief.  But Mary did it. “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord,” she said when she was told by the angel that she was to be His mother. What an enormous act of faith and obedience it was to utter those words and mean them.

                When the day came, that dreadful, unbelievable day…where were her other children? Scripture strongly indicates that Jesus had siblings. Had they abandoned Him long ago? Why was the responsibility of caring for Mary given by Jesus to John, the youngest of the disciples?  Most Bible scholars believe that Joseph was considerably older than Mary and probably died early on, leaving her a very young widow. Did the brothers of Jesus, as they grew up, desert Him and their mother one by one, choosing to follow the world’s belief that He was a fraud and a liar? One can only speculate. There is even a possibility that at least one of the disciples was a half-brother of Jesus. Whatever the case, in the end, He was alone. Those closest to Him could only watch in agony as His bones popped out of joint, bringing more unbearable pain to a body that was already battered beyond recognition. But it was the separation from God that caused the greatest suffering…and the betrayal.

                Yes, the betrayal. We know that Judas hung himself, unable to deal with what he had done.  For thirty pieces of silver, he betrayed his Lord, the star-breather who washed his filthy feet.  And we hate Judas, hate him more than the Brutus who drank wine with Julius Caesar just before he and the other senators assassinated him, more than John Wilkes Booth or Lee Harvey Oswald who brought about two of the darkest days our country has ever seen. We despise him more than any serial killer or mass murderer in the history of the world…because he is us. We say, “Not I, Lord, not I”, but every day we fail Him. Every time we ignore the homeless man by the side of the road or gossip about our neighbor, we drive the nails into His hands again. Like the crowd who shouted, “Hosanna” on Palm Sunday, our very same lips utter words that make Him weep.  Judas is simply a picture of who we really are at heart. But Jesus, Who loves us utterly, does not see that when He looks upon us. He sees only the beauty of who we can be in Him.

                “It was my sin that held Him there.” That is actually not completely true. It was His LOVE that held him there.  On that Saturday, as His friends and mother waited and prayed that the Deeper Magic From Before the Dawn of Time was really true, they must have contemplated the many times they had let Him down.  I know that after the death of my father I thought of those things. I thought of the times I had been disrespectful or rude, the times I could have sat down and spent just a few minutes with him and was too busy. With the passing years much of that guilt has disappeared and I remember the good things that we shared. Those wonderful times that Jesus spent with His disciples-eating, talking, laughing-all of those must have raced through their minds as well. Mary must have remembered Him as a child. Perhaps she recalled that day that He went missing and she and Joseph were so scared…until they found Him about His Father’s business . Now He was lying there in a tomb and she had been a helpless witness to His torture and death. But this was part of His Father’s business, too. Even though she had known that all along, as a mother nothing could have fully prepared her for it.

                On that Saturday, the sorrow that preceded the glory of that Sunday must have been too deep for words.  The Bible tells us that, while weeping may last for a night, joy comes in the morning. Those of us who have loved ones on the other side of eternity live our lives with hope, anticipating the day when we will once again see those familiar faces.(By the way, I disagree with those who say we won’t recognize our family and friends. I believe I will, having become the self beyond the self I now see.)  Our night and our Saturday here are, perhaps, a little longer than we would want, but we need not live under Saturday’s shadow. No, we can live above that, in Sunday’s light. The stone has been rolled away, forever. The enemy has been defeated. “O death, where is thy victory? O, death, where is thy sting?”

                The sting of sin and death have been swallowed up in victory.  We need to live as though we KNOW it is true, not just as though we hope it MIGHT be true. I am a broken, wretched sinner, but His wounds have indeed paid my ransom.  If you feel that your life is an endless Saturday, if you are thirsty for the living, refreshing water of Sunday, then come. He is waiting with his nail-scarred hands outstretched to receive you, whoever you are and wherever you might have been. Be blessed. He is risen indeed.  

“On the hillside you will be delivered, at the foot of the Cross justified, and your spirit restored by the river that pours from our blessed Savior’s side.”

Water's Edge

“I have heard the mermaids singing,each to each.”-T.S.Eliot

         

          Yesterday we made our first beach trip of the season. Throughout the spring and all summer, there will be many more. As we drove through Big Lagoon State Park, headed toward the picnic area, I was overcome with a sense of peace. This has become, over the last three years, our special place. Unlike many beach-type areas, it doesn’t often seem to attract loud, annoying people. The few people who do come are more of the quiet, friendly sort. Thus the wildlife is not frightened off and the sense of harmony with nature is not disrupted.

          Big Lagoon is a place where I can revel in God’s creation. Last summer we befriended and fed a heron, whom we named Terron. He hung out with us for most of the day, eating our picnic leftovers and coming nearly close enough to touch. At any given moment one can look up and see flocks of pelicans overhead. Ospreys and other large birds nest in the park’s trees, and a family of crows has returned each year to the same place near our picnic spot. One of our favorite activities is to catch and observe tiny water creatures, such as pipefish and seahorses. They are so small, yet they are little pieces of delicate perfection. My daughter likes to collect hermit crabs and build them sand houses. Of course we return all of the animals to their homes. I would never presume to impose on the beauty of this place by removing so much as a plant from the premises.

          Yesterday the water was still too chilly for swimming. I look forward to the day, a few weeks from now, when I will be able to totally submerge myself in it and feel that mystical connection I have with oceans and lakes and rivers and lagoons. My father loved the sea. He might have been a sailor, had the realities of life not kept him bound to the land. I am his daughter, and from him I inherited a love not only of water, but of places and things that are free and wild. At times I am tempted to utter a barbaric yawp, to quote Whitman, over the roofs of the world. A part of me has been and always will be untamed.

          Walking along the water’s edge, I thought about a lot of things. I thought about God and life, and how nice it is to spend a day with friends and family, and how perfect a hot dog tastes when it has been incinerated on the grill. I looked at little shells and seaweed and driftwood and a dead jellyfish. I thought about the goodness of the Creator, and how He works all things together for our good. Those little seahorses swimming about in the kelp bed have no thought or knowledge of us, or of anything other than hanging on to life and producing young, yet God knows when each one gives birth and when each one dies. That’s so amazing. How much more, then, does He know us, our hopes, our dreams, our futures? Jeremiah 29:11 talks of this, of how God’s plans are only to prosper and not to harm us. That word “prosper” does not necessarily have anything to do with finances. It has to do with the investment of our souls in eternity. He will get us there. We just have to keep walking with Him, trusting that everything serves His purpose.

          A group of children and adults, apparently either a large extended family or some type of family daycare setup, arrived at the beach about an hour after we did. They brought with them a large assortment of sand toys, but the children, being children, were not deterred by the water’s chill and eventually made their way into the lagoon. They were nice children who did not throw sand at each other or attempt to drown one another. It is always refreshing to see kids who get along with their peers and obey the adults who are in charge.One little girl came up to my friend Robin and I as we waded up to our ankles and said, “Excuse me, will you watch over me for a minute while my mommy gets my float?” We said we would, and she smiled and ran back into the water. I thought about how rare it is for a child, given an opportunity to be out from under a parental eye for a moment, to actually request supervision. It’s really a shame that we refuse to be humble enough to acknowledge our own need for God’s help and protection.

          Right before lunchtime, as the hot dogs were cooking on the grill, the dolphins came. I don’t mean just one or two dolphins, but an entire pod. They were chasing the fish near the shore, and they were close enough that we could see the water squirting from their blowholes. The children stopped all play and stood transfixed in wonder and delight. So did the adults. The dolphins swarmed in circles, stirring up the water. It was almost a dance, their movements were so smooth and lovely. God’s gentle pets at play. I was honored that I saw them. It is good to know that in the aftermath of the oil spill horror, the great creatures of  the sea live on. It is impossible to know right now the complete impact the spill had on our gulf waters, to know how much the populations of various species were decimated, but in that moment just to see these animals joyously leaping was enough. Sometimes it doesn’t take much to give us a little hope.

          Yesterday I got a taste of the joys to come. I remained on the water’s edge, looking forward to what the summer will bring. I also had a sweet-sad feeling, for this summer will be a little different. My son graduates in two months, and he will be starting his first college class in June. He will also be working, so he won’t be with us all of the time. We will have to have some of our beach days without him and his silliness and the sound of his guitar. He is about to begin his own journey into adulthood. He too is at the water’s edge, almost ready to plunge in. I hope the memories we have made will be enough to sustain him through whatever hardships the future brings.

          God be with you, my son.

Oh dance along the silver sand

And beat the turtle drum

That youth may last forever

And sorrow never come.

We Know That It's Probably Magic

“Please watch out for each other and love and forgive everybody. It's a good life, enjoy it.”
― Jim Henson

                I watched “The Muppets” with my family the other night. It was a profound, almost spiritual experience. The Muppets have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, and, no matter what anybody says, they are not “just puppets.” They are the heart and soul of Jim Henson, described by a colleague as a man “who walked this earth like no one else.”  I can believe that. Beneath the whimsy, the goofy humor, the sheer entertainment, there are some pretty important life lessons inherent in those lumps of foam and fabric. Who knew that some scraps of an old coat and a bisected ping pong ball would live forever as an icon of wit and wisdom?

                When Kermit sang the poignant “Bein’ Green”, he was singing about what it was like to be Jim Henson, a shy man who thought he was ugly and weird. The voices Henson gave to Rowlf and Kermit were his own voice, but he hid behind his puppets for most of his life. He was gentle and kind. He led with love, and he never wanted to trouble or burden anyone. Had he gotten to the hospital six hours earlier, his life would have been saved. This is the horribly ironic thing-his very desire to not be a “bother” cost him his life, and was a devastating loss to all who knew him-and millions who didn’t.

                Those of you who know me know of my fondness for puppets, but this was not always so. As a small child I was terrified of them, along with clowns, talking dolls, mimes, and anything in a weird costume, like Mr.Peanut. I still think all of those other things are a bit creepy, but thanks to Kermit, Oscar, Grover, and the rest of the Sesame Street Muppets, I lost my fear of puppets by the time I was four. I watched “Sesame Street” because of the Muppets. Even now, I am skeptical about its value in terms of a child’s future academic success-I could already read when I started watching anyway-but its merit lies in the lessons that it teaches about being yourself, getting along with others, the importance of family and community, and respect for those who are different from you.

                Obviously, “Sesame Street” was not my only venue for learning these things. I had a great family, I went to Sunday school and church, and for much of my childhood I lived in a close-knit neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else and felt free to correct one another’s kids. I’m not even sure such communities exist today. I ran and played with a pack of friends of all ages and from experience came to understand what behaviors were acceptable and which ones were not. But what the Muppets did was reinforce the values I was already being taught.  Additionally, they made me laugh and feel good. This was Jim Henson’s goal. He wanted to make people laugh and he wanted them to see that life really is good.

                I cried when I heard of Jim Henson’s death and when I watched his funeral. He was one of those rare people , like Walt Disney and C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, who gave the world an intangible Something. It has to do with being able to show Truth via imagination, things so deep that we often spend days pondering them. Amidst the wonderful absurdity of a pig falling in love with a frog, a bear telling bad jokes, and a piano-playing mutt, there is a message of hope and peace and joy. We all yearn for the Rainbow Connection, and sometimes, just sometimes, we get glimpses of it on this side of Heaven. It may be seen in different things by different people. For me, the glimpses come through literature and poetry, through music and movies, through God’s creation…and through the Muppets. I laughed heartily and wept unashamedly as we watched  “The Muppets”, and when they sang “The Rainbow Connection” near the end, we were all singing too. That’s what Jim Henson desired-for EVERYONE to join in the song and feel loved and accepted in a way that he himself was never quite able to feel.

I miss you, Jim Henson. You made the world a better, kinder, gentler place. May the Muppets live on forever.

“Someday we’ll find it, the Rainbow Connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me.”

               

The Final Move

“Just when we think it’s almost over, Love has the final move.”

                When I use Love as a noun, I often capitalize it. That’s because I think of Love as a Being. God IS Love; that is His essence.  In Chris Rice’s song “The Final Move”, he says, “It was Love that set this fragile planet rolling.”  Then he goes on to say that in the end, Love always wins. Love has the final move. Thus we know Something-that no matter how things look, the good guys eventually  win.  The ultimate Bad Guy was defeated when the nails ruthlessly pierced Love’s hands and He hung on the cross and died. If I didn’t believe that, if I didn’t KNOW it with every part of my being, I could not face the evil that sometimes seems to smother our beloved planet with its choking darkness. I could not handle the everyday misfortunes nor the great sorrows that this life brings.

                Nearly twenty-five years ago, the music of my life was stilled when I lost my father. I did not see how Love could have the final move. All I saw was a vast, black void where my father had been. I thought I would die along with him. I knew, like the Tin Man, that I had a heart, because it was breaking. Then, the cards and letters began pouring in from people who loved us, who loved him, who were sharing our grief. Day by day, the burden seemed easier to bear. Our friends could not carry our loss, but, just as Sam Gamgee could carry Frodo, who bore the ring, they could carry us. And they did. The music began to play again as I came to realize that Dad was still with us, that he was very near, and I grew in my understanding of death as just a transition to another state of being. We will see him again, and then we will have eternity. The time we spend here on this earth is so very short by comparison. Sometimes I stop and silently ask, How am I doing, Dad?  I can almost hear him-for I have not forgotten his voice-saying, You done good! Love had the final move because my father went Home to his Heavenly Father, and I now have two fathers in heaven.

                Fast forward to the summer of 2004. I had recently learned that I would never be able to bear children, and along with that, my husband and I suffered a terrible betrayal. I spent many weeks in a state of shock, going through the motions of living. I remember reading The Magician’s Nephew during that time and the line where Aslan says, “I know. Grief is very great. Only you and I, in this new world, understand this. Let us be good to one another.” I resolved to be good to my husband, who was struggling as much as I, and to attempt to rise from the Swamps of Sadness. God , to whom nothing is a surprise, had sent ahead of time a tiny angel in the form of a dog named Hermione. It is very hard to remain in the Swamps of Sadness when a bright-eyed pup won’t even let you stay on the sofa. Like a Narnian dog, she was there to help, help, help! And she did. Love had the final move. In fact, it was not until October that I realized just how true that was. In the door came three children who needed us as much as we needed them, and we became a family, and the pain began to fade and Love joined us in a joyous and beautiful dance.

                January, 2011. I was called out of my classroom by the school secretary and quietly told that my mother’s house was on fire. She was okay, but they were taking her to the hospital because she had inhaled so much smoke. Neither the house nor the contents were insured. The pets were gone. Everything was gone. I asked God what He was doing this time. I wondered how Love could have the final move. For years I had worried about my mom and sister. They needed a better house. Now God had allowed the only home they had to be destroyed.  I could not fathom what was happening, but by the next day I saw Love moving. I saw a school full of children raise almost two thousand dollars in one day. I saw a small church and a community pull together and commit to rebuilding that house. Ten months later, we celebrated Thanksgiving together in the beautiful, newly restored, God-built dwelling. On the top of the bookcase sits a picture of Dad in his Marine Corps uniform, a reminder that he’s still watching over us. Full circle. And if we needed any further proof that Love has the final move…

                January 2012. A terrible story of animal neglect in the nearby town of Summerdale. Many animals died of starvation, but 109 survived. My sister is getting ready to adopt one of those 109, a dog who looks very much like one we had many years ago…his name was Elliott, and he was an angel, too. My mother also now has Solee, a Siamese who needed to be an only kitty. New, lovely home, better than ever before. New pets to keep them company. New beginnings…but also a few memories recovered. Among them my wedding dress, my Bible from when I was a teenager, our old copy of A Christmas Carol , pictures…and the cards and letters sent by our friends after Dad died. Grace at work. The Hand of God. Beauty from ashes. Love…having the final move.

                All is well.

“ Out of this darkness, new light will shine, for we know that joy is coming in the morning.”-Steven Curtis Chapman