Eilidh
September
It was not September, but August. We were in Maine for the celebration of my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, which is not August, but September, September 7. September is the month of my father’s birthday, September 28, but that September, he would not have a birthday. Nor would some three thousand other folk have another birthday, because of one particular day in that September, September 11.
But it was August, not September, and we knew nothing of planes flying into buildings, and my father was still with me, with me, just me, just the two of us, sharing one more climb up Blue Hill, my father at almost seventy-nine, almost because it was still August, not September, still fit, ascending the steep ramps of the Osgood Trail at his own pace, slow, but steady and sure. We talked as we climbed, deep talk, deeply personal talk, meaningful talk, the kind of talk you can only have with a father who is frank and wise and compassionate. We took a photo on the open ledges at the summit, my father and me atop the mountain for which the town is named, his home in retirement then, a retirement delayed much too long and doomed much too short, and my home in retirement now, a retirement I live not only for me but for him, too, for the retirement he did not have.
It was August, not September, not the month my sister wanted to hold the anniversary party because it was after all my parents’ actual wedding month, but I objected because I could not come in September, because I was much too busy in September with my work, and if we had planned the celebration for September, as my sister wanted, my father would not have been there.
But it was August, not September, and my father was there and my mother was there and my sister was there and my brother was there and I was there, and dozens of my father and mother’s dearest friends were there, gathered from all around the country into an upper room at the Jordan Pond House, eating and laughing and making our tributes to a man and a woman whose shared life had an immeasurable impact on ours.
It was a most wonderful August evening, not September but August, a most wonderful and unforgettable August evening, my father’s face luminescent, reflecting the warmth of the words that filled the room and his heart, glowing with the joy of a life lived with his one bride, their love hard-earned but now surer and more intimate than ever, radiating the knowledge of a grace deeper than words, that gave him his life and made it what it was and freed him to give the same to us. It was August, not September, because when September came, he was already gone.
Toby’s last hike
I climbed Blue Hill today, to remember and honor our most beloved Toby, the very best of hiking companions. It is a fitting memorial.
We had Toby put down this morning, not wanting to prolong any longer his suffering or ours. Toby, you are forever in our hearts!
Home
There is one thing in my life that, for better or for worse, I cannot change, one thing that has powerfully shaped my sense of identity, that I am rootless. Born in Pasadena, raised in Philadelphia, in town and in suburbs, then scattered across midwest and northeast in adolescence.
Grade four: Oakmont School, Havertown, Pennsylvania; best friend, Hunter Clouse; no girlfriend. Grades five and six: Red Cedar School, East Lansing, Michigan; best friend, Carlos Malferrari, girlfriend, Pam Nystrom. Grade seven: Huntingdon Junior High School, Elkins Park, Pennsylvania; best friend, Stephen Katz, girlfriend, Liz. Grade eight: East Lansing Junior High School, East Lansing, Michigan; best friend, David Backstrom, girlfriend, Kathy Lockwood. Grade nine: Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School, Hamilton, Massachusetts; best friend, Charlie Barker, girlfriend, Holly Cone.
Six years, five different homes, five different schools. Dear friends made and lost. Always letting go. Always starting over. Always the new kid. No place to be from. No companions to grow up with. No extended family because half of the extended family is half a country away and the other half is a whole country away and I know little, so little of their stories.
Who are you? Where are you from? Who are your people? Where is your home?
“O Lord, you have always been our home.”
The Lord has been my home. From the age of four, I have known that before I was my mother’s son, before I was my father’s son, I am a child of God. That is where I live and breathe and have my being, in a space, spiritual and material, that is God’s own creation. Everything I see, I see through that lens. Everything I am or strive to be is measured against that sense of belonging.
For better or for worse. I am grateful, so grateful, for always being home, always being held in God’s embrace wherever I am, whatever may befall me. I am grateful, so grateful for a rich and varied life, for friends from Brazil and India and Argentina and Liberia, Jewish and Mormon and Hindi and Buddhist, musicians and athletes and scholars and thespians.
But I crave roots. I crave a human identity: ethnic or cultural, familial or regional. Which is why I was thrilled to discover, among my father’s papers, years after his death, a genealogy and family tree researched and published the year I was born by a cousin of my father’s mother, Jessie Laing Sibbet. Nearing the age of seventy, after retiring from my life’s work, after traveling three times to Scotland and falling in love with the land and its people, I have learned what I never knew, that I am one quarter Scottish, that my people come from Markinch in Kirkcaldy, that there is a place from which I come, at least from which a part of me comes.
I am hungry and thirsty to know more, to let this wanderer see where the journey began, to push down roots, to lay claim to a home, which though never was nor never will be where I live, is mine.
Katahdin
Katahdin looms — imposing, intimidating, unnerving — its implausibly enormous bulk dominating the skyline. Katahdin is no singularly outstanding feature of this wild landscape; it is the landscape, and all the rest — forest, stream, foothill, me — we all lurk in its shadows.
The enchanting voice of my Maine muse, Carolyn Currie, cantillates from the speakers of my Santa Fe: “Red hawk’s rising on the back of the wind and she’s circling with an answer and I finally understand how to begin.” Red hawk’s rising. I play the song again and again as I make my resolute approach to the campground and trailhead at the base of the mountain. Red hawk’s rising. It is my mantra, my rallying cry, my anthem, as I steel mind and body for the quest that awaits me. I will not soar like a hawk on the back of the wind, but I do intend to rise. If it will allow me, I intend to rise to the top of this fabled mountain.
Fabled, renowned, iconic, Katahdin surely is, but, today, none of that matters to me. Today, Katahdin is not Pamola’s mountain or Thoreau’s mountain or even the mountain of innumerable Appalachian Trail thru-hikers celebrating the denouement of a two thousand mile odyssey. Today, it is my mountain. Even surrounded by dozens and dozens of other hopeful summiteers, I climb alone — not to conquer an adversary or meet a challenge or check off an achievement on some life list. No, any such motive would demean, demystify, devalue the majesty of this mountain. I climb not to overcome Katahdin, but to be deemed worthy of meeting it, of learning some of its secrets, of being welcomed for a few unforgettable moments into its numinous space.
The trail begins, beguilingly beautiful, following dazzling Katahdin Stream as it ascends gently among birch and spruce and hemlock until reaching fifty-foot Katahdin Stream Falls cascading over a series of granite ledges. The impressive cataract is well worth the mile and a quarter hike from the trailhead. Undoubtedly, many a casual Baxter visitor ends the journey here, contented with traversing this splendid wilderness path and rewarded by the spectacular visage of the falls.
Beyond the falls, the climb begins in earnest, ascending four thousand feet in five miles. The trail is relentlessly steep, up and up and up, not walking a steady incline, but scrambling over ledges and boulders among scattered glacial erratics. I feel strong and stronger yet as the path grows steeper, taking some pride as my sixty-something body overtakes more than a few twenty-something or thirty-something bodies along the way.
I emerge from the trees at the base of the Hunt Spur, the crux of a Katahdin ascent via the Hunt Trail which also serves as the terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Steep and long and difficult, the Hunt Spur is a naked ridge of jumbled boulders — car-sized, bus-sized, boxcar-sized. Though marked by blue blazes painted on the granite, the way up is not always clear; every step must be carefully puzzled out, clambering over and around and between the massive boulders. The climb is physically demanding, but even more mentally exhausting. The immensity of the mountain, the unsettling exposure, the demanding route-finding, and the unrelenting steepness make an ascent of the Hunt Spur a daunting endeavor.
And a profoundly satisfying endeavor. I crest the top of the ridge and step out onto the Tablelands, a wide, flattish, tundra-like landscape. I walk steadily, part of the long procession of hikers following the trail roped off on both sides to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem. We wind our way over the plateau, pass Thoreau Spring, mount the short summit ridge, and we are there.
I am there, standing atop Baxter Peak, surrounded by dozens of other happy climbers, but still very much alone, alone surveying the breathtaking panorama — Pamola and the Knife Edge, Chimney Pond and the Cathedrals, alone steeped in the joy of this moment, alone celebrating this mountain which has now become a part of my story and I a part of its story, Katahdin, my mountain.
Waterfront
Cedar Campus is a thin place. A “thin place” is what George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community, called the Isle of Iona, a place, he said, where the separation between earth and heaven, between things material and things spiritual, is tissue paper thin.
Iona is what it is because of its long spiritual history, fifteen hundred years of intentional Christian presence on the island marked by the now restored abbey dating from the 15th century and a carved stone cross that has stood in place since 700 CE. But Iona is what is it as much because of the island itself, the landscape, the white sand beaches and steep-sided coves, the boggy moors and heather-covered rocks, and the sea. And the sea, the ever-moving, ever-changing, ever-present sea: blowing winds, crashing waves, dazzling sunlight piercing deep green waters. God speaks through the wind and waves and the light.
Cedar Campus is a such a place. Cedar Campus has its own “long” spiritual history. For seven decades, people have come — university students and lecturers and InterVarsity staff members, site managers and summer work crew members and families, all of them drawn by the promise of a transformative experience of God’s presence, in song and Bible study and meditation and prayer, but equally in simply being in this “thin” place. Like Iona, Cedar Campus is what it is, not as much by what people have made of it, but by what God has made of it, a kingdom of cedar and rock, awesome sunsets and amazing night lights, stars and galaxies and the shimmering aurora borealis. And the water, the waters of Lake Huron, deep and wide and wild, only slightly tamed by the encircling shores of Prentiss Bay. God speaks at Cedar Campus too through wind and wave and light.
The agenda for a time spent at Cedar Campus, whether a week or a month or all summer long, is communion, communion with God and with brothers and sisters, and the spiritual growth that communion may yield. That is the agenda, but woods and bays and shoreline are the arena where that growth is nurtured. So it is that hours spent in the water or on the water or by the water are not incidental, but vital, to the mission of Cedar Campus. Time on the waterfront is time for communion, too.
The ultimate purpose of the waterfront program — getting campers in and on the water — is that communion with God that comes by immersion in a space of God’s own making, a space that exhibits God’s extraordinary artistry, a space that is filled with God’s own presence. To make that experience profitable, the work of waterfront staff focuses on safety and proficiency and joy. If you can be safe on the water and make your way with some knowledge and skill, you will find joy!
A swimming test is the entry point for all waterfront activity. To get on the water, you first must get in the water. The test itself is not demanding: a twenty-five yard swim, treading water for one minute, then swimming the twenty-five yards back to the starting point. Easy, right? Except that you must factor in the nature of the water in which you are swimming. You are swimming in Lake Huron, a Great Lake, with waters deep and cold. Water temperatures in the mile-long, half-mile wide inner Prentiss Bay around which the camp is situated vary widely, as cold as 48º F and as warm as 72º F depending on weather and wind direction, but most commonly between 56º and 62º F. That’s cold! 58º is bracing, 54º takes your breath away and 50º hurts! But that is the point of the swim test. Waterfront staff want to make sure that if you do end up in the water while rowing or canoeing or sailing, you know what to expect and can take care of yourself without panicking.
Tests are offered at the start of each camp and are good for two years. A member of the waterfront staff rows alongside each swimmer to be close by if needed. Not a few swimmers have had to grab onto the gunwales of the rowboat, either too tired or too cold or too scared to continue. As an extra incentive and reward, each camper who passes the swim test is entitled to an extra dessert at that evening’s supper.
But the true reward of passing the swim test is access to Cedar Campus’ fleet of boats. Cedar Campus maintains a large assembly of boats. Several power boats are kept primarily for the use of staff: for monitoring and rescue during open waterfront times when many campers may be out on the bay; for transporting campers for overnights on Whitefish Point or Rover Island which sits between outer Prentiss Bay, two miles long and a mile wide, and Lake Huron itself; and for shuttling food and cooks to Sandy Cove for cookouts.
The boats available for campers include several rowboats, used for rowing or fishing, a half dozen or so canoes, used for exploring inner Prentiss Bay and Prentiss Creek at the end of the bay, and sailboats, fifteen foot, sloop-rigged, open cockpit sailboats. Later, Cedar Campus added kayaks and Sunfish, small flat-hulled, single sail craft, and several larger daysailer sloops in the twenty-six foot range used by waterfront staff to give sailboat rides to campers and families.
Campers who have passed the swim test may take out any rowboat on their own or with other passengers who have also passed the test, all wearing PFD’s, of course. These campers may also be passengers in a canoe or sailboat. But to sign out a canoe, to paddle solo or to take out a companion, a camper must first pass a canoeing test, and to sign out a sailboat, a skipper’s test.
To pass the canoeing test a camper, university student or family camper, must show a basic knowledge of canoe strokes — forward stroke, reverse stroke, “J” stroke or “C” stroke, be able to paddle the canoe in a straight line, and reenter a swamped canoe and paddle it to shore. Again, the emphasis is on safety, proficiency, and joy.
The joy comes from paddling along the cedar-lined shores of Prentiss Bay on a sparkling summer day or a serene summer evening, perhaps exploring the creek at the head of the bay, drifting among yellow water lilies and navigating tight corners, or bringing along a pole to fish for perch and smallmouth along the shoreline or above underwater rock piles. Some paddlers have even first met their future spouses in a Cedar Campus canoe!
Canoes, rowboats, kayaks, powerboats: all provide means to explore the magnificent coves and creeks, broad bays and rocky points of Prentiss Bay. But the best way to enjoy the water and taste its wonders of wind and wave and light is by sailboat. The power to move a sailboat does not come from any human effort, rowing or paddling, or from any human invention, outboard or inboard motor, but from God, from the wind itself. The skipper of a sailboat must understand the wind, its direction and force; read the wind, see gusts, cat’s paws, roiling the surface of the water in their approach; anticipate the effects of land features on the wind; and always work with the wind, use the power of wind to propel the boat in the direction the skipper chooses. Sailing is a science, but it is also very much an art, an art that requires not subduing the forces of nature, of God’s creation, but working in harmony with them.
To access the delights of sailing a boat at Cedar Campus, a prospective sailor must show the knowledge and skill to safely pilot a sailboat and demonstrate that by passing a skipper’s test. The skipper’s test is more comprehensive than any other waterfront test at Cedar Campus, because the demands of sailing a boat on the open bays are greater and the stakes higher. Weather may change quickly, winds shift suddenly, and, given the right conditions, the lake can generate large waves. Waterfront staff carefully keep track of all boats when out on the bay, and have had to rescue many a sailing crew from a capsized sailboat.
The skipper’s test requires a sailor to know the names of the parts of the boat — bow and stern, starboard and port, stays and shrouds, rudder and tiller and centerboard; the names of the parts of the sails — leech and luff and foot, head and tack and clew; and the names of the lines on the sailboat — halyards and sheets and painters. Knowing these names matters. Shouting, “Grab that rope!” may be met be a look of bewilderment as your boat mate looks over all the lines draped around the boat.
A potential skipper must also demonstrate a knowledge of the points of sail — reach and run, broad reach and close reach and sailing close hauled — and explain how the sails would be deployed on each point of sail.
This first part of the skipper’s test may be done on dry land or before casting off from the mooring, but the meat of the test comes, of course, in the sailing itself. The prospective sailor must rig the boat, securing the mainsail to boom and mast, installing the battens and attaching the main halyard, clipping the jib onto the forestay and attaching the jib halyard, and raising the sails, then successfully casting off and moving away from the mooring. Out on the water, the sailor must show competence in reading the wind and setting the tiller and trimming the sails accordingly, be able to execute both coming about and jibing, and be able to guide the boat to a standstill at its mooring. The procedures for piloting a boat into the wind (in irons) at the mooring are the same for rescuing an overboard crew member.
Some campers, not many, but some, come to Cedar Campus with considerable sailing experience. But most who wish to know the joy of sailing must be taught. Sailing classes are one of the highlights of the waterfront program during month-long discipleship training camps. Eager university students spend time with a waterfront staff member, first in the recreation building learning sailing terminology and tactics, and then in the boats, carefully shepherded by staff either in the boat with them or following beside them in a powerboat. Most advance quickly; learning to sail well is a lifetime enterprise, but it does not take long to develop good basic control of the boat, enough to be able to have a great time out on the water.
Sailing classes last one or two weeks. Often, as a reward, sailing class graduates are permitted to sail a fleet of several boats out of Prentiss Bay and down the lake seven miles to Government Island, a state-owned reserve where the boats are landed and secured to pilings and a picnic lunch is enjoyed. Sometimes, on the return trip, the boats might choose to circle a lighthouse situated in Lake Huron five miles beyond the mouth of Prentiss Bay.
Cedar Campus is a thin place. Few leave Cedar Campus unchanged. The spirit of God speaks here, through faithful teachers and dear companions, through quiet moments spent sitting or watching or praying, and through the powerful witness of its landscape and its waters. Moments spent silently drifting through reeds in a canoe or slicing through waves on Prentiss Bay accompanied only by the whistling wind leave an indelible mark on the soul. This thin place, its memories and its marks, remain a part of every person who comes here and a part of every place to which they go.
If only
Tuesday mornings, I meet with members of the Deer Isle Writers’ Group. We gather at 9:00 am at the home of one of our writers. We chat and catch up with each other for about a half hour and then spend an hour and a half writing, often in response to a suggested “prompt.” At eleven, we regather and read aloud what we have written, inviting comments and critique. The prompt for this last Tuesday was “if only …”
This what I wrote …
If only she had placed her foot just a little bit to the right …
If only she hadn’t been wearing the Birkenstocks …
If only she had agreed to switch places after she told me she couldn’t see her feet …
If only I had waited until our son could help me move the bridges into the woods …
If only COVID had not meant she was teaching her last semester remotely here in
Maine instead of in person in Iowa …If only I had not built the bridges in the first place …
If only I had not the built the trail that required the bridges in the first place …
If only we had not bought the home in Blue Hill with seven acres on which to build a
trail in the first place …
If only we had never lived in Maine and would not be drawn back to it …
If only we had never lived …“If only” is a rabbit hole of despair. Each “if only” wishes away a little piece of my life, a little piece of me. And as the “if only’s” multiply, gratitude gives way to bitterness, anticipation is overshadowed by regret, and my once hot-blooded life turns colorless and listless while my soul feeds only on itself.
She had the better idea. Almost immediately, she began making a list, a long list, of all the good things that resulted from her accident. It was not to ignore the loss or deny the grief, but to embrace her life as it is, as it now is, because of the accident. Her list includes Jeanine, the ICU nurse who lives on our road, and Jeanine’s parents who live on our road, too, and who are now, because of Jeanine and because of the accident, counted among our friends. Her list includes tangible expressions of care from new friends in our Deer Isle church and the Deer Isle writers’ group. Her list includes a September retirement party in Iowa with both of us now able to attend which would not have happened had the accident not cancelled her May Iowa trip.< And her list includes me, shopping and cooking and washing dishes, doing laundry and prepping her shower and managing her meds, loving her in new ways because this is what it is.
“It is what it is.” It’s one of our favorite phrases. “It is what it is” is an antidote to “if only,” said not with begrudging resignation, but with clear-eyed honesty and bold acceptance. “It is what it is” embraces the here and now because it is here and now and because it is the only here and now we will ever have.
“It is what it is” is a conscious and even joyful choice for faith over despair, for hope over resignation, for life over something that may resemble life but is mere emptiness.
It is what it is … and it is good!