Minutes of Meetings with God and with Myself
<Click here for another "Minute">
Mountains, Ships ...

The memories started to come back, not suddenly, but with subtlety, with a delicateness and an elusiveness and, yet, with a penetrating power. And they were good memories, memories of my childhood that had not come to mind for a long time. With friends since seminary days, my wife and I had rented a cabin on the shore of Lake Michigan just four or five miles from the Mackinaw Bridge. The cabin was a restored, but rustic log tourist cabin that had been built back in the 1920's about 100 or so feet from the water's edge. There were two bedrooms, small, but allowing privacy for each of us two married couples (and providing a bit of a damper on the horrid din made by the snoring, now, I don't snore, but the rest of them...). There was a large room with a great view of Lake Michigan, a kitchenette along the east wall, a comfortable dining table about the middle of the room, and a sofa and some easy chairs scattered around the rest of the space. There was a bathroom with a shower stall. We quickly found out that whoever showered last showered with cold water. There was no telephone. And, although the cabin had electric lights (and a television... blah!!!), the night that we arrived, the cabin was lit by only an oil lamp on the dining table, a nice little touch that the owners had provided. The place was simple and comfortable. It wasn't just one thing, but several different things that brought back the memories. Part of it was the sound of the waves on the beach, part of it was the swing on the cabin's porch, part of it was seeing the huge ships passing by in the distance, part of it was the ducks and the loons (and there were even swans) swimming on the waters of the little bay we were in, part of it was, well, just a bunch of little things that conspired together to take me back in time, a time that felt safer, more hopeful, and somehow less spoiled than now. I remembered the front porch swing at the house where my grandparents lived when I was four or five years old. The house was kind of shabby and run-down, but neat, the kind of place that wealthy farmers provided for their hired hands so they wouldn't have to part with too much cash. My grandfather worked for Alcoa Aluminum and, as a farm hand, for a wealthy farmer. The front porch swing provided a wonderful view of some of the Smoky Mountains. And on that swing I learned, in that at once fascinated and frightened and intuitive way of children, about the power of God and the power of nature as I watched mighty storms (with thunder and lightening and wind) come down the side of the mountains. As either my mother, or my grand-mother or one of my aunts sat with me on the swing, watching, I learned a lesson that I too often forget. I learned that God isn't out to get me, that the storms are not after me, the storms have nothing against me personally, the storms just "are" in a frightening and beautiful way (I think my Mom understands about storms, that's why she sits on her porch swing with her cup of coffee and watches hurricanes). As I sat on the porch swing of the cabin on Lake Michigan, and as I watched the mighty storms move across the lake, I remembered God isn't out to get me, the storms are not after me, the storms have nothing against me personally, the storms just "are" in a beautiful and frightening way. What a fabulous "light show" the storm put on one night. What a great, creative artist God is. At the edge of Lake Michigan's waters, I remembered another time in my life when I lingered by the edge of the water. As I grew up on Detroit's lower East side, beginning when I was in fourth grade, I began to go to a nearby city park on the banks of the Detroit River. I would ride my bicycle to the park, mostly in the company of playmates (there was "a gang" of about 6 of us, we did get into a bit of mischief, but not into serious trouble), sometimes by myself. At the park, at the river's edge, I could be soldier, pirate, daredevil, hero, world traveler, sports fisherman (landing the big Muskie was my dream but I was lucky to land a little perch or a rock bass), adventurer or anything that I wanted to be. I fantasized about swimming out to Peach Island and exploring its wild looking shores. The Detroit River became my link to the world beyond the lower East side. Often, I would sit on a large rock (actually, a big slab of concrete, that had been dumped for fill) and watch the huge lake boats and the ocean going freighters sail by. I recall seeing the Edmund Fitzgerald more than once, and I saw ships from all over the world, flying French, Spanish, Mexican, Brazilian, Panamanian or some other national flag. If I saw a ship flying a flag I didn't recognize, I would usually look it up in one of the books in the school library. Some of the ships were bright, almost new looking. Others were dull, rusty and looked all beat up. Some ships looked rich and others looked poor. The engines of some of the ships drummed out a strong and healthy rhythm as they powered along the water, others sounded sick, irregular, troubled. I would wonder where the ships had been, what their cargo was, and where they were going. As children so often do, I dreamed that one day, I would be on one of those ships, meeting the challenges of the Great Lakes, and the even greater challenges of the oceans and going to far away, strange, and exciting places and having all sorts of adventures. The river bank became one of my important "get-away" places where I could think and sort things out. The sound of the water, lapping at land's edge, would help calm me down. Skipping stones across the water became a sort of ritual to help me think. During those years, I was a kid without a father. It wasn't easy being me. I was scared and confused most of the time. I didn't realize it then, but, down by the river side, my Heavenly Father was helping me learn some vital lessons. The river was showing me that God has an order, a way of doing things and getting things done. The river flows, that is God's order. And the ships passing by were teaching me important stuff about life, teaching me that what we human beings do, what I do, has to work with God's order of things or else we run aground or even sink. The river bank was one of the places I wrestled with the question, "Where am I going with my life?" and it was one of the places I began to realize that the more important question is, "Where does God want me to go with my life?" Yes, the memories are good memories, helpful memories. They have come to mind at just the right time because I need to remember what those memories have to teach about God and about life. I need the reassurance and the calm.