When the Waters Stir, When They Don't, and When There's Nothing To Be Done

The Nature of Disappointment and Living in Spite of It

(This is still a work in progress, but, if you haven't noticed, I've taken a break from it. I've combined the completed posts into one, with great intention to finish it all soon.)

Day-by-Day and With Each Passing Moment
Maria died yesterday, at least one day too soon. Her birthday party – moved up a couple of weeks by an encouraging but expectant family – was to have been today, but a too-soon rattle in her struggle meant her deathday would come first. I wonder if she was disappointed.

I didn’t know Maria very well, even though we worked in the same building for four years and, yes, even though I had once been her teacher. Ethics, I think it was. I remember she got an ‘A’; I should have known more about her than that. I do know she wrestled with her illness for a long time, long enough, I’m sure, to fear each and every change of her body, to face the questions of purpose we all face, and to tire of looking in the mirror of the universe.

Many will attend Maria’s funeral; I won’t be among them. Too busy, I guess. Before you condemn me, know that I can’t be there. I’m away on business (be sure not to pronounce it busy-ness, by the way), the modern excuse for cowardly caring too much or too little to change a changeable schedule, a schedule that a situationally-important someone/something you pretend to care about has intimidated you into believing is more important than some unconditionally-important someone/something you genuinely care about and for whom/ for which you would change the world IF the world was just, well, changeable. (OK, now you can condemn me.) But, I don’t have to go really; I’ve seen plenty of coffins, corpses and green canopies beneath which denial-induced, mortal coil-shufflers still wince at the Styx-stench recently revived in their nostrils. Funerals prompt gazes by those left at the bank, not by the one who just cast off. And, to be downright blunt, funerals are for the dying, not the dead . . . and right now I desire to be among neither.

You see, I’ve known I’ve been dying for some time now. (Before those who know me pick up the phone, I’m relatively healthy and there are no immediate signs the caterer has been called to the church. . . . So read on.) As I tell my students, ‘you’re dying the moment you’re conceived.’ Well, it’s true, and a Truth that, in an existential sense, we each face every moment of every day. It’s also my contention – and the argument of this essay – that, if we do accept this Truth, then we can come to truly Live no matter the circumstances. If we don’t, then myopic and dizzied we walk a tight-rope through a Life-defying existence where the carnival’s lights cast shadows we’re quick to worship as Reality, where, by errant faith, we accept – even initiate – emotion-fueled rollercoaster rides that travel through our many layers of consciousness, and where hope is bought and sold along the midway by barkers ready to ease our every itch, pain, blemish, and amputation with sugar-coated placebos, extravagantly enticing yet cureless.

Your Turn, My Turn
Before I go on with this argument, I ask that you engage in an activity with me. Here’s how . . . First, consider one of your deepest disappointments in/of your life. Don’t go on beyond reading before you do this, OK? . . . . . . . Got it? Now, write it out. Putting things in words through the inherent logic of language forces us to explain what was once just an unarticulated idea, impression or emotion, and sometimes we have to do that, not for others, but for ourselves. . . . . Now do you have it? Great, and thanks! (If you don’t, guilt should have set in by now.)

Here are responses from some friends to this same question:

• I regret not making the time in which I asked my wife to marry me/our engagement much more special than I did. I don't know why, but I wasn't very intentional and I just wasn't the man I should have been. I would say, so far in life, that is my deepest disappointment.
• I'd have to say my parents' divorce was the deepest disappointment I've experienced. Even when you're a teenager, you can't possible understand the why's of it.
• My mother's self-centered life style destroyed two of her marriages, and kept her from establishing relationships with her grandchildren.
• My failed business some years ago.
• The death of my daughter . . .

Now, the second part to this activity: In the same way, articulate an immediate concern of yours. Whatever it is, write it down so, again, you have to explain it and, in fact, physically see it in front of you. . . . . . Ready? From the same friends who gave me the above responses, here are their immediate concerns:

• My most recent issue of great concern was when a friend of mine texted me that he was getting married after just breaking up with his girl. He and his girl had broken up a few times and just had a lot of stuff to work through (his words, not mine). So I was very concerned and felt burdened for them. I'm glad to say everything worked out awesomely and my concerns were un-needed. It was one of those times I'm SO glad I was wrong.
• I guess my greatest concern is financial. Never enough, it seems.
• Hoping my children make good life choices.
• My car is on the fritz AGAIN.
• Grad school is a bummer right now. I think it’s because I’m just not into it nor know why I’m here really.
  

OK, let me give you mine. Among my deepest of disappointments is the one I’ve wrestled with for a year and a half – my not being selected as chancellor of the college campus at which I’ve worked for 16 years. Sounds petty, doesn’t it? (Saying it out loud or writing it down sometimes does that, too, you know.) Petty or not, the decision – someone else’s, of course – that I wasn’t good enough for this important position hurt, plain and simple. I covered with statements like, “Oh, I knew I was the underdog” or “I always wanted the choice to be what was best for the campus.” My favorite, though, was the very ‘spiritual’ sounding “I left it to the Lord to decide,” which is really absurd and quite insightful, because, heck, I have absolutely no power, no inherent or bestowed authority to leave anything up to the Lord of the universe. Obviously, He does as He pleases, not as I give Him permission to do. Nevertheless, the disappointment was there, drilling into the core of my being.

My most pronounced immediate concern surrounds me daily and reminds me that I am, in the long run, most powerless, most human. From a combination of a ‘changing them’ and a ‘changing me,’ a new life-shadow has emerged as our children grow to the point of adulthood. It’s not that I’m no longer their ‘hero’ who brings home important stuff to a rousing chorus of ‘Hurray, Daddy brought home toilet paper!’ No, it’s more like I’m no longer the one who can protect them from the big, bad world out there. I had convinced myself that I could do that when we would huddle in our castle-home and eat home-made pizza, watch a stupid movie that would make us all laugh, scarf down ice cream and brownies, and, encircling like wagon trains of old, hold hands to thank the Lord for His protection and blessings before we headed off to bed. Well, with the oldest gone and his three siblings in the wings awaiting their cue in a play written for a much larger stage, I have a diminishing role as their co-producer/director. They don’t know their parts exactly, but they’re getting it. I believe the Playwright is pleased, though. Still, something deep stirs within me while watching this life-play unfold, and I can’t help but shudder at its impending impact once the final curtain falls.

Disappointment Always Comes in Fours
Tell me (please!) if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that disappointment – as seen in our examples and, perhaps arguably in all other experiences of it – comes in four different flavors:

· Disappointment with others,
· Disappointment with the world,
· Disappointment with ourselves, and
· Disappointment with God.

Let’s briefly look at each of these through an example from Christ’s life and ministry, as portrayed in four fictional, first-person narratives based on Scripture. (By the way, maybe you ought to read the real Scripture before you gulp down my take on these events.)

Disappointment With Others . . . John 4:4-42
He was sitting there when I arrived. Just sitting; no jar, no cup. Just sitting as if someone had told him I would be there soon and he had decided to wait. I’d never seen him before in my life.

I placed my things at the well on the side opposite him. That’s when he spoke. Although I was startled, I couldn’t dare react. I didn’t look up, but stared into the deep darkness of the well and went about dipping water into the vessel I’d brought with me.

Please don’t say anything else, I thought. Please don’t. He did, of course, and asked me for a drink of water. What man would ask such a thing of me, a woman? He knows the law? What does he really want? . . . I hate men like that; I think I may hate all men. Husbands or not, they come promising me their selfless love while secretly hoping, expecting that I, in my perceived nothingness, will sacrificially permit them to use all of me that’s not already a marketplace bargain to satisfy their lustful, selfish whims.

He asked again for the water, speaking quietly as he did at first but with a quality quite different than any man I’d ever met. He was calm, not demanding as most would have been when repeating a command. I looked at him this time. His face was tanned, bearded, and worn from the wind and sun. He looked old, yet youthfulness played about his eyes and smile.

“Why do you speak to me?" I mutedly muttered just above my breath while turning my eyes from his so not to linger there too long. “I’m a Samaritan.” I had hoped he would leave when I told him that; you know, just in case he didn’t recognize me as such. I have to be careful, you see. I’ve been spat upon, whipped, and stoned by Jews, only to be nearly beat to death by the men in my own village and, yes, even by their women, for bringing the Jews too close to our homes. No place is safe when enemies live even at home.

The man didn’t leave as I expected, but asked me if I would take what he called ‘living water.’ Only once – when I was a child and first bound as a servant – have I tasted of such water, so cool and clean. Living where I do, I’ve never tasted any so pure since.

“Where do you have such water?” I asked. “You don’t even have anything to draw with.” He said his father could give me such water. Ah . . . now I understood. I wanted to spit in his face and shout at him so God, Satan, and the whole of heaven could hear my sufferings at the hands of men such as this: “Your devilry rises too clearly in your words, you hypocrite!” I only said it in my heart, of course; I turned away to leave.

He spoke again in that way, though, that . . . well, that way that somehow deflected my hate. He repeated his offer of this special water, saying something about it becoming a spring within me and that I’d never thirst again.

Taking a chance that maybe this man was nothing more than just a traveling magician, I decided to stay and hear him out. Besides, if he gave me this water, then this might just be the last day I have to carry this jug around. Who knows? I’ve heard tell of miracles being done in the villages to the south. I think I deserve one.

I told him I’d take some of his water, and that’s when he asked me to call my husband. I looked at him for a long time, too long for a woman to look at a man who’s not her lover, let alone a Jew. I gave no reply, cold or otherwise. Miracle-man or not, I didn’t care for his question. I may be nothing to look at anymore, useful for little more than gathering water, and of no value to a world that readily took all I could give it . . . but . . . but why does he ask this?

“I have no husband,” I admitted.

He saw me turning to leave again and spoke, telling me . . . something I already knew all too well . . . telling me that, in fact, I have had five husbands and that the man I’m with now is not one of them. How did he know that? What kind of a trap is this?

My mind raced with the possibilities and dangers, yet I couldn’t throw off the fact that his words were not condemning. For what seemed like eternity his eyes focused on me in a . . . in a way . . . well, a way like my father would look at me long ago . . . A look that said, ‘Oh, my precious, so very precious daughter.’ It was a stare of compassion, of unconditional acceptance . . . of love that only wanted to give, not take.

I began to weep before him, with all the hatred, bitterness, and disappointment gushing from the empty well deep within me. Then, without hesitating, this man, this Jew, took my hand in his and told me the most unbelievable news, news that I so wanted to believe: He softly but firmly whispered to me that He was the Son of Man, the Christ, who had come to the world . . . yes, come even to me, this whoring, female half-breed. Falling to my knees in front of Him, I sobbed out of joy and clutched His enrobed feet. Light seemed to pulsate within me, illuminating every life-blackened hole within, and, as He promised, a spring of joy, of Living water, filled me, even to overflowing. I laughed, cried and shouted all at the same time.

From somewhere behind me, I heard men’s voices coming toward us. A group of men, all Jews, surrounded us. They looked at me, surprise in their eyes as they surveyed the situation, but said nothing. My smile reflected in His eyes as I unashamedly looked on Him with a love I had, until then, never known. Rising from His feet, I kissed His hand only to taste my tears that had fallen there, and then, taking my jar in my arms, I left with it empty but my heart full and splashing around me as I ran all the way into town. I had to tell them – all of them – about this man, and how He – the Messiah – took my every disappointment by rescuing me from my meaninglessness and restoring my humanity, all so that I might truly Live.


Disappointment With the World . . . Mark 5:35-43

-Mom. Psst, Mom. . . . Mother, wake up.
“Wha? Oh, you’re ready.”
-Yeah.
“Got all you need?”
-I think so.
“You’re sure about this? It’s a long way to go for probably nothing.”
-We’ve been through this. Yes, I’m sure. More than sure.
“OK. I just want you to be realistic, you know.”
-I know you do. I love you . . .
“Lock the door when you leave, OK?”
-Sure.

. . . OK, what else? I’ve got bread, clothes, a bit of money . . . oh, and my rags. I’d better take care of that now. Oh, God, let this be the last time I have to do this. Please, please. I’m so very, very tired of dealing with this, with all of the washing, with . . . with being unclean and everyone knowing it. Tired. Just very, very tired . . .

There. All’s in place. Just let me make it there, God. Please let the rags hold it all. I can’t let it show or they’ll notice and they won’t let me get close . . . I can’t worry about that now, though. God, be with me. I’m scared to death, but I know . . . I know this will work. . . .

It’s so dark this morning. No moon; that’s good, though. No one who’s up right now – if there is anyone at this time of day – will be able to recognize me or, hopefully, to see from which house I left. I can walk awhile, too, without anyone coming around. The less time I have with someone the less likely I’ll be found out. I guess that’s become my philosophy of life, hasn’t it?

The bread merchant said it was more than a half-day’s walk. Starting out now should put me there well before He goes through town. Plus, I can find a place to sit out of anyone’s sight. I hope the merchant’s right about Him being there. . . .

How long has it been? Seems forever. I guess I was about thirteen when I had my first period, but it wasn’t long after that when the blood wouldn’t stop. Strange how I was excited then about . . . well, about being a woman finally. . . . Ha, I remember how Mom instructed me about the ashes, about washing my clothes and the rags, and how I actually thought it so grownup, so womanly, so blessed to have the potential that lay within me. I knew I wanted to marry and have my first baby soon. I couldn’t wait . . . It’s been twelve years, hasn’t it? Twelve long years . . . What was that?

-Who’s there? I can’t see you; who’s out there?
“Don’t be scared. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
-Who are you?
“My name’s Jairus? What’s yours?”
-Uh . . . Mary.
“What causes you to be out so early this morning, Mary?”
-I need to see someone in the city.
“Me, too. I wanted to get there early so not to miss Him. Do you mind if I walk with you?”
-No, I don’t mind . . . for now, I guess.
“Where are you from?”
-Close by. Just down the road . . . a ways, actually.
“Oh. Your husband is not with you?”
-I am alone. I live with my mother . . . You are of some position, then?
“Why, yes, I’m a ruler in the synagogue. How did you know?”
-I could tell from your clothes, is all.
“Yes, of course . . . Sorry about that; I . . . don’t wish to offend . . .”
-That’s OK. We can’t always help the situations we find ourselves in, can we?
“No, we can’t . . . no we can’t.”
-We can’t help a lot of things. Not our lot in life, not our fortune, not our health, not even what others may do around us or . . . to us . . . I’m the one to be sorry, now. I didn’t mean to ramble on.
“No, no, that’s OK. I need to talk in this way. I don’t have anyone to talk to, really. About these kind of things, you know. My world has little room for understanding. One’s forced to struggle alone. . . . Does my talk disturb you?”
-I’m not used to talking with people, either. I usually keep to my own.
“Why is that?”
-Oh, just because. I’ve been ill much of my life, and I don’t want to bother anyone, I guess.
“What kind of illness, may I ask?”
-It’s not important.
“Is there something I can do to help?”
-No! . . . I mean, no, I’m OK.
“I know of illness, too. Not my own, though. It’s my daughter. She’s very, very sick. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve prayed, fasted, had doctors come, sacrificed all, it seems, but she gets weaker by the hour now. I can’t bear to watch her just lay there and die . . . And, that’s why I’m going to the city. That’s why I have to meet a man I’ve heard about there. He’s special, they say. But . . . dangerous, too.”
-What do you mean?
“He’s different. New ideas, not all Jewish, if you know what I mean. He’s been causing a lot of problems in the area, or so the Pharisees are telling us. Still, I've heard from some in the village that He’s a miracle-worker. I want to see Him, just to see if . . .”
-I’ve heard of Him, too. I . . . I thought maybe I might try to see Him when he’s in the market. Someone told me He passes through there on occasion . . . Do you want Him to heal your daughter?
“Oh, I don’t know. I'm sure that sounds crazy, because I want so much for her to be well, but . . . but I don’t know what will await me when I return home. I can’t go against the Law or against those who enforce it, even though I’m one of them, but . . . if He can help my daughter, then I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.”
-I understand all too . . .

Oh, God . . . oh, God, things don’t feel right anymore. My walking must be . . . I feel too much wetness, too much warmth . . . Please, God. Not now, not here, not with him here with me.

-. . . I need to stop awhile.
“I’ll stop with you.”
-No, that’s OK. You go on. I may need to rest for a time longer than you have to waste on me. I wouldn’t want to cause you to miss your appointment.
“I think I can stop a bit and be on time.”
-But, I need to be alone some . . .
“Oh, forgive me. I’m sorry . . . I forget sometimes. My wife and daughter know that I don’t think much, at times, about the needs of others, and, well . . .”
-It’s OK. But I need to go over there for awhile.

God, make him leave, please . . .

Oh, there’s so much blood here. I must be making it worse by walking so much. Why can’t this just go away? Stupid doctors! They know nothing. They’ve taken all our money, and given me only curses. Not even sympathy. ‘You must have done something wrong to have this happen,' they say. 'You need a priest not a doctor. What did you do to deserve this?’ Oh, God, for nearly half my life I’ve endured their ridicule while my very lifeblood leaves me with every pulse of my heart. I have no friends, no one, except my mother, and she thinks just like them at times. I’m too big of a disappointment for her to receive her complete love, I think. There’s always some sense of shame that hides in her. Some subtle disgust. . . . OK, I need to stop thinking like this. I can’t start doing that again. I'll only get worse . . .

I’m so glad I grabbed those extra few rags . . . seems I’ll need them. I have to bury these that I’ve used. I can’t risk them being found by someone . . . I wouldn’t want to cause them harm. . . . Here, this shallow trench will work; I’ll just cover them with dirt. That’s all I can do.

Well, the sun’s about to rise . . . . Help me, God.

“So what were you burying back there?”
-What?
“What did you find so necessary to cover with all that dirt?”
-You were watching me? How dare you?
“It’s my business to watch people, especially those with something to hide. Now what’s going on?”
-I have no reason to tell you anything.
“As a Jew, you do. Remember who I am.”
-I don’t care; none of you have ever tried to help me. No Jewish leader I've ever known cared about what I’ve been going through. No one! Now, leave me!
“Not until I go and see what you just buried.”
-No! Get away!
“This is what I must do, Mary . . . if that’s really your name.”
-If I tell you, will you promise to leave me alone? Will you?
“Yes. I’ll go my way . . . but, I still have obligations to uphold, and I'll see that they’re upheld wherever it is that you live.”
-My illness . . . my illness causes me to bleed, OK? And, what you saw me bury was some bloody rags.
“Lucky for you – and especially for me – that I didn’t touch you before now. Now, stand away. You know the law. You’re unclean, and you violated the law by not telling me. I’ll pray that God can have mercy on you. Go back home. You can NOT go to the city. I forbid it! If you were going to the city to see the great Teacher there, I'm sure He wouldn’t see you anyway.”
-I will . . .
“You will do as I command, is what you’ll do. I’m leaving you here, trusting you'll do as is expected. Count yourself lucky that I haven’t done more.”

Some man of compassion. Oh, I hope he can find a way to help his daughter, God, but . . . God, what a world I live in. I sometimes wonder . . . but I have no one to trust but you.

I best stay here for awhile; let him get out of sight . . . But I’m heading on, no matter what he and his cronies may do. I must go the rest of the way. I know I must . . . I hope it's not far.

. . . Ah, finally, the city. Thankfully, it’s still early in the day, so there’s not many around yet. Good. I need to find a spot out of sight for awhile, someplace I can see when He comes this way. IF, He comes this way, that is. Maybe there won’t be much of a crowd . . . I really don’t want to touch anyone if possible. God, forgive me if I do. Please understand my need. I want so to be healed. Oh, I want to meet this man, the one they call Yahshua. I know deep in my heart He’s a very special man. He must be of God, He must be. My heart, my yearnings tell me He is. Give me courage, God, to be able to do this. I’m scared of the crowd, scared of being found out, and scared that . . . that it's all a big scam and that what I'm feeling is just my overwhelming need to hope, my last hope. But, if He's really who I think He is, I’m also scared that He’ll find me out like Jairus did . . . and . . . and, He'll reject me and I’ll be eternally condemned unclean as my Life-blood streams out of me drop by drop by drop . . . Maybe mother was right . . .

Hey, what’s going on? There’s people running around the corner . . . I can’t see what's happening. Look at them all, though. Oh, God, if it’s Him, I’m in trouble. I won’t be able to see Him, let alone talk to Him. What am I going to do? I’ve got to get closer. I need to know if it’s Him.

I’ll go to the corner of that building and peek around. Maybe I can tell. Oh, rags, stay with me. I should have changed, but I fell asleep. I needed to sleep, but, oh, God, please keep me together. Just for a few minutes more. I’ve got to see Him. I’ve got to get closer . . .

. . . Wow! There are so many people! I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re all so excited, too. This must be Him. My heart says it is. I just know that’s Him; this is my time, my moment to encounter God Himself! Please, God, give me courage! Please! . . .

So, here goes . . . I can’t help but touch people or to keep them from bumping into me. I'm sorry. God forgive me. . . . Where is He? I can’t tell which one He is from here. The crowd’s pushing backward now toward me. He must be walking this way. Surely He’s in the middle there . . . somewhere. Where are you, Yahshua? Oh, God, my tears, my tears. I can’t keep them inside me anymore. So much pain. So much humiliation. So much disappointment with life and the world. Where are you, Yahshua? I need you . . .

Look! That must be Him! It’s got to be Him. He’s so wonderful . . . Everyone seems to love Him. There’s so many people, though. Oh, no, there’s that Jairus guy. He can’t see me, but . . . oh, I don’t care. I don’t care anymore about the Law or him or . . . let them do what they will. I’m here to be whole again not pass their tests . . . Oh, God, there’s no way I can get to Him. He can’t hear me if I call to Him. What am I going to do? What can I do? Show me a way, God. Show me a way, please . . . Look at all of those people just trying to touch Him. Surely, there’s never been a man like Him. . . .

. . . Maybe . . . maybe if I just touch His clothes . . . Maybe if I can just feel the hem of His garment. That may be my only chance, now. I just need to touch Him . . . my heart needs to meet Him. I can do that. God, open up the way . . . one step at a time . . . maybe if I get on my knees and reach up through those who stand in my way . . . yes, I think I can . . . here, here He comes! Here He comes! Uhhh, I can get there, I know I can . . . Please, Yahshua! Have mercy on me . . .

“Who touched me?”

(Next time we'll look at disappointment with ourselves through the life of a man who gave it all up for a legion of 'friends'.)

In Memory of Bob

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, "I find no pleasure in them"

• before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars grow dark, and the clouds return after the rain;


• when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men stoop, when the grinders cease because they are few, and those looking through the windows grow dim;


• when the doors to the street are closed and the sound of grinding fades;


• when men rise up at the sound of birds, but all their songs grow faint;


• when men are afraid of heights and of dangers in the streets;


• when the almond tree blossoms and the grasshopper drags himself along and desire no longer is stirred.

Then man goes to his eternal home and mourners go about the streets.

Remember Him—before the silver cord is severed, or the golden bowl is broken; before the pitcher is shattered at the spring, or the wheel broken at the well, and the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. -- Ecclesiastes 12 (NIV)

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him, male and female.” Genesis 1:27 (NIV)

Robert James Dakota Wilson (1970-2009)

There’s an old hymn that, in one of its more poetic verses, says

‘Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made;
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.’

For thousands of years, humankind has attempted to describe the awesomeness of their Creator, the beauty of life, the mystery of the unknown, the meaning of life, and the love of God. Perhaps F.M. Lehman, the writer of this hymn, comes the closest to being accurate. In other words . . . we can’t; it’s humanly impossible for us to capture the immensity of God, the vastness of His love for us, and ultimately what that means for us.

What we should know is that only God can describe Himself . . . and for that He simply said, “I Am." Confused, we ask: “But what are You?” He replies: “All that is, has been, and ever will be. I am the Beginning and the End.” “Then, what are we?” we ask. “You are my creation,” He says, “created in my image.”

Robert James Dakota Wilson was God’s creation, and, if we believe the Scriptures, nearly the spitting-image of God himself, revealed to the world on December 5, 1970. Knitted in his mother’s womb and taught at his father’s side, Bob took on the characteristics of the work of art that he was. He was son to Evelyn and Les; brother to Bill, Rita, Kelly, Teresa, Tammy and Joshua Dean; husband to Lisa; fiance’ to Michel; father to Aric and Ethan; and friend to us all. He was intelligent, articulate, fun-loving, and wry-witted. He found life intriguing, paradoxical, whimsical, ironic, and, yes, even cruel. The moments of his life – like ours – wavered between fulfillment and emptiness, happiness and despondency, joy and sorrow, contentment and frustration, acceptance and separation, and, in the end, between the seconds of an ordinary day and the forever of eternity.

But what of this image found in Bob, this image of God we each possess? What characteristics of Him may we find, even in a life cut short? Even in a life tinted by mistakes? Even in a life haunted by Adams’s sin? Be careful not to think only of Bob right now, for this pertains to all. Each will live a life too short, a life colored by our poor judgments, and a life ravaged, perhaps not by disease, but by the cancer of sin. What did Paul say? . . . “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.”

Where then can the image of God be seen and how can the Glory of God be revealed in us? To answer that, all we have to do is – for this day – to look at Bob. For in him, we see the Lord’s creativity: a painting, a photo, a sketch, a homemade video, a song, even a silly ‘shrunken head’ – all attesting to Bob’s creative energies, his unique view of the world, and his love for the peculiar. In Bob, we see the Lord’s love: a smile, a laugh, a word of warmth, an unwarranted courtesy extended, an unconditional respect for those around him – all evidence that Bob knew of how the Lord wanted us to treat each other. And, in the workings of his mind, we glimpse the mind of God: the love of Truth, the desire for an authentic life, the craving for a world without evil, and the calculating logic that would sift for the grains of ultimate Reality.

Some might be want to lessen the impact of a man’s life because he seemed to search too much or ask too many questions or even color outside the lines too many times. Some might even say that of Bob. In Phillipians 2:12, Paul tells us

Therefore, my dear friends … continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose.

Bob lived his life to the fullest, searching for his creator and for his creator’s image in himself. He lived life honestly and courageously, and there’s no doubt he knew where he stood with his God at all times. Sometimes that was far away; other times, the Lord was as close as his last breath. He knew, though. And, like one looking back to see where he’s been and where he’s headed next on a long, but uncompleted journey, Bob assuredly said, “I know You are The Way.” Even with all he did, this was Bob’s greatest achievement and the greatest description of God’s love that anyone of us can ever know.

So, in the night-stillness of July 24, 2009, Robert James Dakota Wilson walked into eternity with our Savior Jesus at his side to meet the Father of all, the Lord God Almighty, the Ruler of heaven and earth, the Maker of the universe…and the Artist who created him.

This School Year . . . Choose Respect, Be Different

(This was a short speech that I gave this morning to our area teachers.)

Whether you are a teacher, administrator, or staff member, you and I have much in common . . . we have both chosen to work in a field that is celebrated for its high ideals and noble endeavors. No matter your role, you and I are educators, and since Plato first laid down what would become the principles of Western educational philosophy in his book The Republic, we have been honored among mankind’s professions as the world’s “philosopher kings and queens.” . . . However, we also work in a field that’s sometimes vilified, fingered as the cause of society’s every ill, asked to be parent, priest, and police officer, and then asked to do it all without clear direction nor sufficient resources and under the most stringent of accountability measures. Given such a dichotomy of feelings, it is – at this time of the year especially – sometimes difficult to rise to meet the demands of our high calling. Yet we do it year after year and, in general, we do it with excellence and professionalism.

But it’s becoming more difficult, isn’t it? There are a lot of reasons, but I’m convinced that educators today must deal with the results of two key societal attitudes of the modern era: indifference and disrespect. I think you will agree that we increasingly see the combined effects of these symbiotic attitudes among our students, their parents and families, in community groups, and, yes, even in our co-workers and ourselves.

Among students, the voices of indifference and disrespect combine to ask questions like, “Why will I ever have to know or use this crap?” “Will this be on the test” or, my favorite (and be sure to listen for the whine . . .) “Is this really due today?” Among all of us, indifference expects everything its own way and offers up nothing in return. It expects and even demands the greatest of rewards for mediocrity, self-importance, and fitting into the latest fashionable mold of the day. As for disrespect, it taints the importance and meaning of everything we say and do in our classrooms and in the actions displayed in our board rooms, offices, hallways, playgrounds and gym floors. We, as educators, can have absolutely no positive influence when disrespect rules . . . either when it’s held by others about us, when we hold it about ourselves or our colleagues, or . . . and I want you to hear this clearly . . . when we hold it about our students.

Here are two brief anecdotes, concerning this last point: The first comes from my wife, Rita, who after college, worked as a speech pathologist at Alton (Mo.) Elementary School. As she got to know her students, she became acquainted with a kindergarten boy named Nathaniel who, she learned, had the nick-name Nate-Nate. One day, Nathaniel approached Rita and another teacher in the hallway. When Nathaniel came near to them, Rita asked him, “Nathaniel, tell Mrs. Johnson what they call you at home.” Without skipping a beat, the little boy looked up and said, “You mean ASS HOLE?”

For me, that is one of the funniest AND one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard. I can only hope that Nathaniel knows today that he’s much more valuable than what someone led him to believe he was back in kindergarten.

My second anecdote comes from a personal experience with one of my honors students at Missouri State, a young lady I’ll call Amy. Like many honors students who come my way, Amy was bright, smiling, and a voracious learner. Socially, she was reserved and said little to her classmates. She was also attractive, of poorer means, and, as she told me, a “nobody half-breed,” part Cherokee part something else. Through our time together, I learned Amy just turned 20 years old, had a five-year-old daughter, and was living with her fourth male partner.

After completing the first semester of the honors program, Amy didn’t return. For probably two years, I heard nothing from her, nor of her . . . that is until she dropped by my office one day holding a bouquet of flowers, a Diet Dr. Pepper, a bag of my favorite peanut M&Ms, and a well used copy of what I learned was Amy’s favorite movie, A Year of Living Dangerously. As she was laying these items on my desk and with tears streaming down her face, she simply said, “I just had to thank you for helping me love myself again.” I stammered something out of my surprise, and then she, turning toward the door, said . . . “I also want you to know that I’m going to be a teacher someday. I will . . . no matter what anyone says.” And then she left.

First of all, I tell you both of these stories to remind you that these students are the students we both will soon stand before and work beside during this coming year. Nathaniel and Amy are NOT exceptional examples anymore.

Secondly, know that the attitudes of indifference and disrespect that surrounded Nathaniel and Amy were very real and very influential. But also know – and I challenge you to come to realize this on your on – that those very real influences can be offset by two powerful opposing attitudes and actions on your part. If the world is indifferent, you – as Plato’s ideal educator – must be different in that world and choose to make a difference. If the world is disrespectful, you must courageously face that disrespect and be genuinely and constructively respectful. In other words, fight indifference with difference; face disrespect with respect.

This is true when working with others, too, but it’s especially true when working with students – students who are my primary focus and concern no matter whether I’m wearing my teacher hat, my administrator hat, or my staff member hat. When I act and think with the intent to make a difference with my students, they sense it immediately and, in the base nature of the learner, they begin to mimic my actions, attitudes and thoughts. And when I show them respect, then they begin to respect me. When I respect my academic discipline, then they, in turn, move toward a deeper appreciation of those things I want them to know.

I realize this may sound very simplistic, and I may be just too naïve and too idealistic to know any better. But I know this works . . . It works with almost every one of my students – from the Nathaniels to the Amys. BUT you know, this works for me, too. For as an educator today, IF I give credence to all of the voices of indifference and disrespect out there, then I, too, can feel like an asshole and a half-breed prostituted for others’ desires.

And you know, that’s not what I am. For out of my many passions, I choose – like in the words of the Apostle Paul – to be a peculiar person – in this sense, an educator – that’s focused on every one of those individually unique minds, hearts, and souls that float through my part of the universe. I’m proud of my choice. . . and I hope you are, too.

So, today, with all due respect and with the encouragement to choose to be different in an indifferent world, I wish for each of you “a year of living dangerously”. . . I hope that this school year will truly be the best of your career so far!

On the Leaving of Sons

For Kent

On a hot, muggy July morning, God gave us our first child, a son. Seth’s coming was easy for me; not so much for Rita, but I can only assume given some particular indications of her experience. (Ignorance in the uninitiated father is truly bliss; my only pain was from a well-squeezed hand.) With this new, long-awaited being finally in our lives, joy filled the room, our hearts, and our lives; so much that even eternity could not seemingly lessen its breadth nor depth. He was us; we were he.

So 20 years later when his leaving day came -- that day for which I, from the day of his birth, ignorantly and ironically set out to prepare him -- I realized I had failed to prepare myself. I had known it was coming from the time the doctor let me cut his umbilical cord. Now another cord lay ready.

We -- the Family . . . Rita, Seth’s two sisters, his little brother, and I -- moved the trappings of his fledgling life into his dorm room. We went out to eat, prolonging the inevitable with a burrito special and sweet tea. And then we said, “we’ll see you later,” “call us when you get a chance,” “have fun,” "I love you" . . . “bye.” At that moment, a hole the size and shape of the universe opened in my heart, and we left him there, a pilgrim in an alien land called Oklahoma.

Since then, the hole isn’t as big and it's changed in shape, like any earthen hole will change with the passing of time. The strange thing, however, is that this hole, where I once thought nothing else could grow, will hold a large number of new plantings: a confident, maturing son; a loving, supporting daughter-in-law and her family; and, yes, all of their untold friends who are now, our friends, too.

My father told me this would be one of the hardest things I’d ever have to go through in my life . . . He was right. But, for Seth . . . and all too soon for Leslie and Kori and then Nicholas . . . it can’t happen any other way. So, my friend, when that hole opens in your heart this fall, remember that it’s just part of being a great dad.

Oh, and you know that Cat’s in the Cradle song by Harry Chapin? . . . I hate it.

A Garden Play: An Essay in Four Acts

Act I: The Tilling

For four years, I’ve known this woodland garden that now lies before me. I say ‘known’ when I should really say ‘observed,’ as no human can truly know a garden, large or small. So complex and unfathomable is life for any one to pretend he can know such a thing, even if given four hundred years to do so.

A spectator from my favorite porch swing, I mostly just watch over my garden — an inherited stage, I admit, and not of my own creation; at other times, I either negotiate conflicts over light and shade between garden members or, out of arrogance and ignorance, I pillage as some invader come to rape a foreign land of its treasures. I am at my most frustrated, however, when, like a last-minute understudy, I know not the role I am to play on this stage and, if I did, I would most assuredly stutter the lines.

I desire to increase the drama of my garden, but all efforts fall short of my ideal. I have too little time, too little energy, and definitely too many distractions to achieve the magazine image in my head. Oh, I have minor successes from time to time that please me, but an audience of one is often much biased.

When truly objective, however, my observations tell me that I have little control over what goes on here, as the garden spectacle unfolds no matter what I do and never all at once so not one but many may take of it in their own season, not just mine. The orchestration of action and dialogue is intricate, with never a cue missed. The design never fails, for just when I think an early frost or a pesty intruder has brought irreparable damage, the play continues without intermission, surprising me in its miraculous power to create from once withered limbs and diseased organs something wondrous and beautiful – a perfect tulip in late May, a juicy jonathan in cold November . . . .

“So why, Lord, do I hesitate to accept your script for my life? I am an iris, an aster, an actor of your Garden, resisting your directions. Why can’t I accept what you offer? What more must I have?”

‘What is twisted cannot be straightened; what is lacking cannot be counted.’ (Ecclesiastes 1:15)

“But, Lord, I want to do something special; I want my life and my work to have meaning.”

‘As a man comes, so he departs, and what does he gain, since he toils for the wind? All his days he eats in darkness, with great frustration, affliction and anger.’ (Ecclesiastes 5:16b-17))

“How, then, shall I live? What is my purpose?”

‘Not only was the Teacher wise, but also he imparted knowledge to the people. He pondered and searched out and set in order many proverbs. The Teacher searched to find just the right words, and what he wrote was upright and true.’ (Ecclesiastes 12:9-10)



Act II: The Sowing

The thought of what I must look like brought a quick smile. Academic regalia are only so fashionable, and mine, complete with the traditional mortarboard that makes me look even more hairless, were no better than any other I saw. My students — the nine honors students who had survived to graduate today — laughed good-heartedly. Of course, they looked just as ridiculous.

“I bet Socrates never wore one of these,” I quipped.

Despite being uncomfortable with the costumes, we were glad to see each other wearing them. Symbolism is a powerful thing, and having the black velvet tam o’shanters on each of their heads — our college’s symbol that denotes completion of the honors program —meant far more to each of these men and women at that moment than maintaining “their image.”

It meant much to me, as well, for this was the season for a teacher’s harvest.

We had come a long way together, these nine and I. Starting in their freshman year, I had been among the first to greet them, to ease their anxieties, and to cause their first pain of academic discipline. They were among thirty who had enrolled in the program’s entry course. Not a great retention rate, but these young scholars were something special. I always told them they were the reason I came to work, and I meant it more than they knew.

There’s Amanda, the perfect one. Always ready, always organized. She’ll probably be president some day. Morgan, the over-achiever who doesn’t know which ten things she will achieve first. Andy, the challenger of the universe who absorbs everything his mind touches. Justin, the theologian; lover of words and the concepts they form. Jeremy, the polite, articulate servant. Cary, the Jesus wannabe. Gentle. Loving. Wears sandals wherever he goes. Matt, the work horse; Lacy, the silent one. And, finally, Rogers, the wanderer of mind and soul, who seems to have been the most dramatically affected by his experience here.

We gather for a group photo that somebody’s mom wants. I’m in the middle, smiling, arms around Morgan, Patrick and Cary. We awkwardly anticipate the flash with a waning, pasted smile then it’s off to our respective lines. Faculty on this side; graduates over there. The familiar march begins, and I enter stage right . . . .

Two years go by so quickly. I hope . . . I pray . . . they received something of worth while they were here. Did I really do anything for them? Did I make a difference?

Those first few days together were interesting. As I recall it now, this group really struggled with Plato. But I laid it on thick. “You’ve got to know this!” They got it, too, as everything else they would study in this and the following class would mean far less if they didn’t. “Plato says we’re like prisoners chained to a cave. Our eyes are fixed to look only at the back wall of the cave, and that’s where we see the shadows. Nothing else; only shadow. The problem is we don’t know they’re shadows. We think these images are reality because that’s all we know, that’s all we’ve ever known. In other words, we not only believe them we also believe in them. So, as Plato says, unless we break free from our chains and escape the cave, we are destined to live lives based on distortion and, yes, even illusion and lies.”

That got them started. First, they had to understand the story, then its implications, and then test its application to others things we would read.

“We’re just like Hamlet, trying to figure out if what we see and hear is actually there or not.”

“Could you say Jesus and Hamlet were following the same ghost?”

“What? Jefferson didn’t even follow what he wrote about in the Declaration of Independence?”

“Like Freud asked, why are we so hung up about sex?”

“Does religion serve to grease the wheels of capitalism?”

“I just don’t get this Tao of C.S. Lewis’. How can anything be absolute?”

“Are we just killing time waiting for our own Godot?”

“So if there is no meaning to life as Sartre contends, then . . . .”

“What did Solomon mean by ‘Vanity, all is vanity’?”

I suddenly felt like Dr. Frankenstein. Had I gone too far in getting these young minds to entertain such questions? What happens if they challenge the shadows so much that they lose hold of what is real and true? Am I leading them down a path less traveled or pushing them off the edge of an all too familiar cliff?

Jesus quizzed the Pharisees and the Sadducees, asking them to look beyond the law and into the heart. Socrates challenged “the youth of Athens” to think through the obvious toward what was beautiful and true. Hmmmm, they crucified Jesus and executed Socrates.

Deep in my own cave, I took Hamlet’s soliloquy as my own. Is it nobler ‘to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing them, end them’? (Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1) Is it? What’s my responsibility here? How far do I pursue Truth in an environment where so few even believe it exists? How long do I play the philosopher king and stir the prisoners still deep in the cave?

I am, after all, just a teacher.


Act III: The Harvest

Honors 250, Final Essay. 100 points.
In three single-spaced pages and using the readings assigned during the past two semesters, answer the question, “How, then, shall I live?” Your essay should be personal, reflective and an honest portrayal of your current thoughts . . .

“When a person, or in this case a professor, asks me how I will live my life, it becomes difficult to even begin to explain how I, as a young adult, will attempt to live my life. Yes, I can read the books of philosophers, and, yes, I can read philosophical stories of characters with interesting views on life. Yet, they can only usher me in the right direction in finding who I am and how I shall live my life. Finding who I am is no longer the challenge; it is now how will I live my life.

“I shall continue on in this life much like that of a philosopher. I would rather look at the larger picture than just inside of the box. If I can do that, then perhaps I’ll be able to understand even more of exactly who I am; not because the world will tell me who I am but because the meaning I apply in life through questioning can tell me who I am.” – Matt

“Answers are not made to be handed out on a golden platter. They are meant to be discovered and used wisely. Only the person who questions his life and his reason for being here will begin to learn and discover the meaning to it. He will be the one who actually lives, unlike the man who simply follows in the paths of others. He will look back on his life and won’t remember any of it having importance because it was not his. I do not want to live a life of regret and failure. I want to live each day like it was my last and make a difference in the life of others any way I can.

“Jesus Christ had an outlook on life that was like no other. He dared to be different and in doing so saved many individuals from destruction. Together, the courage and knowledge that he possessed were an indestructible force. To have such courage and knowledge that allows a person to be so persistent and successful in the betterment of others would be extravagant. Simply daring to be different is enough in this day and time to get a person killed. I hope, however, that one day I will obtain an inner sanctuary of moral beliefs and rules that will be untouched by any outside force. Then, throughout my life everything that surrounds me will be like an illusion because my life will be solely based upon the fulfillment of my happiness and doing right in the eyes of my God.” – Morgan


“Part of the process we must follow in life involves figuring out what the thrones in our lives are and then judging whether they are beneficial or toxic to us. We pledge our allegiance to scores of nouns and adjectives during our lifetime. If a person finds their reason for living in their spouse, then they are found kneeling at the throne of marriage. If someone is given to an uncontrollable temper, they kneel at the throne of rage and emotion. We must periodically discern the value (or worthlessness) of all these things.

". . . The question is ultimately this: whose interests are you striving to serve? If you’re constantly at the mercy and will of other people, I don’t believe that is the way life should be lived. One must not live solely for self, but he or she should have their own best interests at heart, instead of perpetually prostituting time and talent to those who plead most pitifully. Once allegiances are struck, whether to God, self, family, friends, career, or anything else, they must be either firmly held and honored or totally thrown out and replaced. The world is, sorrowfully, full of men boasting of their fortresses in life, when in reality they hide behind the popsicle stick walls of compromised integrity and honesty. One must be true to self, as well as true to the allegiances that you strike.

". . . I suppose the important thing for me to remember in life is that not everybody is going to conform to my view of what is right, or how one should live. Yet that isn’t really the point. The thing that I need to remember is that I must pick my battles in life, fighting for the most important things worthy of my defense. I have to use the correct tools in life if I want to create the best meaning out of life, and thus the best self, that I can.” – Justin

“Throughout my life, I will use life experiences as my dictionary. I will learn from my past mistakes and apply what I have learned to my future. I will voice my knowledge and my ideas to make my life and the lives of people around me better. I will not fear my self or others. I will not let others infringe upon my beliefs or ideas. I will do my best to turn my ‘thought . . . into truth.’ I will apply my knowledge and ideas to my life in order to further my understanding of the world around me and to assist in my personal growth as a human being.

". . . Throughout my life I will look for the truth and form my opinions based on those truths. I will not be refused my personal rights as a human being and as an American citizen, and I will exercise those rights based on my own morals, values, and beliefs. I am going to live according to my goals and the goals that God has for me.” – Lacy

“Early in life we begin walking down a path, and we’re not sure of its destination. For much of the time we can’t even see the end of the road. Because of this we try to put value in whatever is around us at the time. We spend so much time chalking meaning into anything and everything we see that we miss the true meaning of the journey. Those who search for true meaning will come to realize that at the end of the road there is God or there is nothing. If you turn away from the wall of the cave, begin down this path and find nothing, then you have nothing. Those who get to that point understand themselves better than those still facing the wall of the cave, but their meaning is fleeting. Under that form of existentialism, they have themselves and they are their own value and meaning.

". . . I believe that you reach the end of the road and find God. Within that belief, God is able to take a form (ours) that before had only fleeting meaning, and place in it Himself, something that has eternal value. After that the way to live is not simple, but I’m no longer living to serve my own fleeting self. . . . How then shall I live? ‘Fear God, and keep His commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.’” – Jeremy

“I plan to live my life by continuing my education through school and by what I encounter throughout my life. I will still question almost everything I see, hear, or read. That part of me I do not want to change. I will look at life and decide if I do more damage by questioning than by accepting. I will attempt to let my friends know they are my friends. I will try to learn to see the good in everyone. I will not seek revenge against people who cause me grief. I will be aware of why I am joining an organization. I will understand that I am influenced by everything in life and that is how I form my opinions. I will try to realize that what ever happens in my life is a part of life. I will not blame others for what happens in life. I will try to live my life in a way that creates no regrets. I will try to live in such a way that I will not be ashamed.

". . . I will live to help others have a better understanding of things they need to understand. This is a deep-rooted part of who I am. I am a better person for doing this. I know this sounds conceited, but I become a better person every time I accomplish this task. My ultimate goal is to become as good as I can at helping others. I guess I will have to live my life as a teacher.” --Rogers


Act IV: The Thanksgiving

‘I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.’ (John 15:5)

“Father, I feel so alive today. I know I did some good with those kids! I know they learned something more than just how to make money, look good, and speak and think well. And, oh, I hope they learned something, too, about who they are, why they’re here, and maybe, just maybe, something about you, too.”

‘This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.’ (John 15:8)

. . . . . . . . . .

Today the irises with their spouting pollinating beards stand out among the sea of green stalks and petals; next week the iris will bow and the columbine and daisy will take center stage. Wait a month and the coneflower and day-lily will trumpet the arrival of summer’s heat, while the azalea and rhododendron, with their glory now past, welcome the coolness of the giant hickory’s afternoon shadow. Wait two more months and the fountain grass will send its fruited plumes skyward and the apples from the gnarled old tree at the corner of the house will once again prove Sir Isaac correct. Although I can imagine the scene today, I find it difficult to envision that in six short months all of this can be sleeping beneath the cold blanket of another winter’s snow.

Such radical change often saddens those gardeners whose joy comes seasonally. They perceive no other time than spring when life is at full bloom. All else pales. All else fades. All else foretells death and despair.

Although I am all too human — prone to wither in the summer, sneeze in the fall, and say in the midst of a dark bleak January, ‘Oh, Lord, let it be spring!’ — I have come to learn (and now to teach) that I can not be a spectator in this garden play; I desire with my very being to act upon this stage in whatever role the Gardener chooses. I am His to direct.

And so now . . . I sing, and the incessant cadence of the Garden’s life spirit comforts me. I listen, and I no longer look toward that which distracts me to seasonal pleasures. I march, and I find no reason to fear the shadows of an advancing winter. I dance, and I am unashamedly filled with life eternal. I teach, and I fall to my knees in joyful, purposeful worship.

Sand and Water

(A poem written while Rita and I visited Omaha Beach in Normandy, France this spring. The situation is fictitious, by the way. We were tired, but not 'warring'.)

She and I came warring to this beach of our fathers’ generation,
A place of ocean sand a world afar, a time too far too far away,
When hating hate fused man to machine in tragic and scheming play;
Old Fortinbras' revenge renewed, inglorious for ev’ry nation.

Here, bloodied waters wash healing salts ashore, ne’er anemic, ever fading;
Memories vicarious give context to mine, shrouded in muted powers;
And, bone-white sentinels of cross and star stand for eternal hours,
Invoking God’s honor in borrowed nave, peace and promise persuading.

Her sandied feet bruised and wearied press this Norman earth now new;
Prints of heal and toe o’erlay the booted soles inclined toward death,
Liberating her, convicting me while entwining our envisionous breath:
Lo, the saviors up dying dune in duty, in love, they submit for me.

I kneel to wash her feet; a friend, a mate more sacred than before,
Beatified bride unveiled by crucified pride to love and war no more.

Son of Thunder

Thunder rattled me out of slumber. Rain pounded the roof, and lightning flashes lit up the lightening sky of a near-solstice June morning. I love the cadence of rain, stirred by the bass of booming thunder. I always have . . .

. . . As a boy, I grew fond of the change a storm generously gave to my melancholy of a day. Without human cause or prompt, an incredible transformation would occur without warning and, sometimes, within mere seconds, the universe was alive. Such power, such blessing, such striking danger. I would willingly succumb in awe, teetering between fear and love.

. . . Living by a lake is, yes, wonderful, but when it’s your first home, your honeymoon year couldn’t be any sweeter. A cabin made essentially of reclaimed materials – flooring from a school gym, a discarded wood stove, top-hinged windows that would swing out from the bottom so rain couldn’t enter even when the storm’s wind wall would fall – it was simple, yet there was an unexplainable elegance that sheltered our first year together. The life forces of water, wood, flora and fauna synergized here. And when a storm would arise from across the lake and sweep its way into ‘our’ cove, the world was relieved of its accumulated stains and Eden lay cleansed. On early mornings much like today’s, my soul-mate and I would lie in our bed bare and honest and free, secure in each other and ourselves while thunder rolled over the waters and the rain dripped through the tree-neighbors in slow, even rhythms, as our hearts beat as one. I can think of few finer moments.

. . . That night remains with me to this day, though it’s been some many years ago when, as we do every year, our family pitched tent and lived beneath the canopy of towering sycamores. (Modern man fools only himself when he goes camping. Finding his path-place far from his instincts, he beckons their companionship in the recreational, self-imposed vacuum of his own inventions. He soon tires, though, of his own smell, the pains in his back, and runs home to a hot shower and a soft bed!) In the middle of night, the valley shook with unmuffled thunder. Steadily, my fathers’ equation became easier, and the distance between light and sound narrowed. The eye of Zeus raged directly over us, and the universe exploded. No flash of lightning could be ignored; every note of harmonic thunder resonated with clarity; the percussionist was in rare form. My senses were afire, and mind, body and soul fused with my surroundings. I was gloriously alone, lying shelterless between earth and the heavens, between my surrogate mother and my Father, the Creator of all . . . even me.

I arose wet with the remembrances of Being there.