I’ve been overwhelmed this week with flashbacks to Fathers’ Day (and Mothers’ Day) in the years I was serving a local church.
The major expectations.
The stories no one else knew.
The family that lost a son to AIDS.
The folks longing to be parents.
The families going through divorce.
The parents whose kids had huge physical and mental health challenges.
There just aren’t enough Hallmark cards in the world to make all the pain better on days when everything is supposed to be all warm and cozy.
I woke Monday morning faced with packing and a very long day of travel on the way home from the Rabbit Hole. Part of me wished that I had a pair of ruby slippers and could just click my heels three times and be home.
It turned out just as well that these powerful postmodern ruby slippers are still on their way from Fluevog’s magical shoe elves. It seems there was still more for me to learn on the bumpy flight from Portland.
There was considerable turbulence over Idaho and Utah. I was having trouble reading and decided to check out the movies. Once again, I found a movie with a message for me. A Dog’s Purpose.
Of course, I’d read the book by W. Bruce Cameron, but it had been a while. And I had tissues in my jacket pocket so I took a deep breath and pushed play.
First, let me just say that Oregon is fabulous and, if you haven’t been there, I’d highly recommend it!
The weather in Portland was, mostly, lovely. I saw lakes and mountains and rivers and waterfalls and places where many of those things come together, which is a wonder for this Mid West/South East girl. I had lunch in Washington State, adding yet one more to my list of states visited.
I have crossed through “Tsunami Hazard” zones (Who knew?) and over Humbug Creek, East and West. I even discovered the Museum of Whimsy in lovely little Astoria, OR. Really!
One particular highlight was a visit to Fort Clatsop where the Lewis and Clark expedition camped in Oregon Country during the winter of 1805-06. The model of the original fort left me feeling awed. I’m not sure I could have camped there for half an hour!
Everything being contextual, the only things I really knew before about Lewis and Clark were that they embarked from Missouri and they were accompanied and supported on their journey by a Newfoundland dog named Seaman.
Now, though, I feel some of what they must have felt centuries ago. Mostly the forest.
Hushed. Primal. Upholstered in whiskery moss. Living. Breathing.
A treasure not just as a teaching tool, but as a silent call to cherish and heal our planet.
Once upon a time, nearly 30 years ago, I went to the Prom.
Oh, I’d been before. The usual high school events. Awkward dates. Social pressure. Anxiety.
This was different!
My second year seminary classmates and I decided we needed some fun after a pretty intense year filled with, among other things, Hebrew.
We got permission to have a Prom, reserved some rooms, and hired a DJ.
Then we started spreading the word. Lots of people were excited. All of them asked what to wear.
The response: “Dress creatively!”
Bill and I were on the road so early Sunday morning that even the Baptists weren’t up yet. With the girls’ birthstones around my neck and a jacket of many pockets, we headed for the airport and the 10:00 am flight to Portland. Or, more likely, the mythical Rabbit Hole.
Large portions of the Delta terminal are under construction. The lighting is oddly eerie. Rather like a low-budget sci-fi film. As usual, in Atlanta, the place was teeming with the sleepy, the harried, and the lost. And no hard-boiled eggs.
As a veteran people watcher, I’d say a bunch of athletes, folks excited about a cruise and, maybe, just maybe, a few others of the rabbit hole type.
One of the things I’ve been pondering lately is the notion that things have the meaning we give them.
Holidays are a good example. Memorial Day is, perhaps, an especially good example. This is a place in our culture where food seems to be deeply involved in meaning. Consider for a moment the many folks who, in the course of our conversations over the last couple of weeks, have asked questions like, “Is it still Memorial Day if I buy the potato salad?”
Or, “My grandson is allergic to watermelon. What do we do for Memorial Day?”
Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a land far away, I was a young nurse in an operating room.
It was a medium-ish general hospital. We did all kinds of cases. I still remember many of mine. One of them more than most.
Our patient was five years old, about a year older than my Dave at the time. She had a broken arm. Badly broken.
I’m not sure how she got to the ER. In any event, her parents could not be located.
She needed surgery to fix her arm.
She couldn’t have surgery until someone signed the consent forms.
