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A new beginning

A new beginning

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It’s not the new beginning we had imagined.  You would have zoomed your last zoom, uploaded your last grades, flown to Iowa to turn in your university ID and loaned computer, and we would be retired, together retired, totally retired, free, free for the life we have chosen in Maine, free to do together whatever we want for as long as we want whenever we want — walking the Castine shore hunting pottery shards, paddling among guillemots and loons and harbor porpoises alongside Bare Island or McGlathery or Bartlett, browsing Dreamcatcher or Three Wishes or Goodwill seeking hidden treasures or no more than the pleasures of the browsing itself, pruning the potentillas and planting petunias and making pies of the rhubarb and wild blueberries, cutting dead cedars and hauling the limbs to the brush pile, painting decks and cleaning windows and organizing closets, reading by the fire and soaking in the hot tub and enjoying some porch time with crackers and cheddar and a riesling.

We will do all of that, I hope, I believe, but in the meanwhile a different kind of new beginning has been thrust upon us, unanticipated, unprepared, unwanted.  In a moment, one bizarre and baffling moment, everything changed.  You stepped, your foot failed to find its footing, you were down, your leg shattered and everything changed.  You will not be roaming the beaches, but cruising from bedroom to bathroom to living room on your knee scooter.  You will not be working in the woods, but looking out at them from the porch.  You will not be shopping the sales, but sending me out for groceries.  It will be me, not you, pruning the potentillas.  I will be your nurse instead of paddle mate.

It is not the new beginning we had imagined, but it is the new beginning we have.  And because we have it, because we share it, because I share this time with you, this time too is precious to me beyond words.  We will find treasure and delight, laughter and communion, new strength and new joy, even in this new beginning.

Maine Poets Reading

Maine Poets Reading

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Apparently, I am now qualified as a “Maine poet …” (insert smiley face!)

This Saturday, May 1, as part of a belated poetry month celebration, I will be reading some of my poems along with two other writers for a “Maine Poets Reading” Zoom event sponsored by the Blue Hill Library. Several of the poems I will read have been posted here on my blog. The event is scheduled for 2:00 pm EDT. If you are interested in joining in, you may register and access the Zoom link at the library’s website at https://bhpl.libcal.com/event/7706060.

A different kind of communion

A different kind of communion

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This morning, in the meeting of our Deer Isle Writers’ Group, we were prompted to write about an animal encounter. This is what I wrote …

 

I was a boy.  I was a fish, swimming and diving, exploring the cerulean waters of the remote Catalina cove.

I was there because of my father.  He came to mentor university students in the way of following Jesus and brought his family of five with him.  We had driven five days from Philadelphia to Los Angeles, then taken an hour shuttle across the bay to Avalon, where we were taken by launch to Gallagher’s Bay and Campus by the Sea.

Campus by the Sea was one of several summer leadership camps developed by InterVarsity Christian Fellowship.  There was also Bear Trap Ranch in Colorado and Cedar Campus in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and Campus in the Woods in Ontario.  I had been to them all with my father, but Campus by the Sea was my favorite.

Because it was rustic and primitive and wild.  We slept in tents, one-room half-walled wooden platforms with tattered canvas roofs and no amenities: no kitchen, no shower or toilet, no running water at all.  We used outhouses and ate in a common mess tent and had to keep watch for rattlesnakes and wild boar.  I loved it.

I was there because of my father.  And I was there, in the water, because of my father.  At the age of four, he taught me to swim and the waters — the clear and soothingly warm waters of Sebago or Winnepesaukee or Saturday Pond, or the clear and exhilaratingly frigid waters of Prentiss Bay on Lake Huron or Dog Lake in Ontario or Penobscot Bay — have been like a second home, another realm for me to live in and move in and be in, ever since.

I was a boy.  I was a fish, swimming and diving and exploring.  I spied something, something bright and shiny, maybe it was a bottle cap, on the bottom, five or six feet below me, and I dove for a closer look.  As I reached for that serendipitous treasure, I happened to look up.

And I saw and I was seen.

The truth of the matter was that I straightaway swam up and away in adrenaline-infused alarm, but that is not really the truth of the matter.  There was the moment of seeing and being seen, an almost timeless moment, sharing space, sharing consciousness, sharing being with something wild … almost endearing, almost a kind of communion, almost the making in that moment of a cross-species friendship, my face and its face just inches apart, I and the stingray.

Relay

Relay

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I had an epiphany this morning.

I was running on the treadmill, listening to Louise Connell and Andrea Von Kampen on my Nano, mind wandering among memories of summer hikes in Baxter State Park and New Hampshire’s White Mountains and Acadia, when a sudden recollection of another run, another race, came into my head.

It was the spring of my sophomore year in high school. It was the season-ending Cape Ann league track meet hosted by my school, Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School. It was the meet’s final and deciding event, the mile relay. And it was the highlight of my brief career as track and field athlete.

In the mile relay, each of four teammates run a quarter-mile, once around the four hundred forty yard oval, passing a short metal baton from one runner to the next. I was selected by our coach to run the second leg.

The first leg was run by Neil Smith, another sophomore, a distance specialist, a miler. He ran a brave race, hanging tough with the sprinters. When he passed me the baton, our team was in third place, three or four yards out of second.

I turned and threw myself into a dead sprint. I shot past the runner in second place and fixed my eyes on the back of the runner in the lead. For fifty-three seconds, I saw nothing the back of his singlet, straining with everything I had to catch him. I closed the gap to three yards, but no closer, and as we came off the final turn and headed down the home stretch to where the next racers awaited us, I could push no harder and he began to increase the distance between us.

I do not remember the name of our third runner, but he blew away the rest of the field. When Dave Belton, our senior anchor, took the baton, he had a thirty yard lead and by the time he finished his lap, it was fifty. We won the race! We won the meet! It was an exhilarating, intoxicating, most proud moment.

And yet, over the years, the sweetness of my recollection of that race has been tempered by some doubt and regret. We won, but it was our third and fourth runners that brought us the victory. I failed to pass the lead runner. I closed the gap so quickly, but could not finish the job.

But I held my ground. That was my epiphany this morning. I held my ground. I held my ground and did my best. I did my job and put my team in a position to win. I didn’t win the race, but my team would not have won without me.

History is a relay. This moment in our nation’s history is a relay and we are the runners. I do not win or lose on my own. You do not win or lose on your own. But we must, each of us, hold our ground, give our best, do our job.

When we do, when we keep our eyes fixed on the prize, when we run the race, each of us, with everything we have, not giving up, pushing hard until the end, we will win.

We will win.

David Walters: man of faith, husband, father, grandfather, poet, friend

David Walters: man of faith, husband, father, grandfather, poet, friend

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My heart is broken. I am devastated to learn today of the sudden death of my friend, David Walters. He and his wife, Debbie, were members of our church in Waterloo, Iowa, faithful and engaged members, careful and honest practitioners of their faith, both of them highly intelligent and introspective, unparalleled in their commitment not merely to mouth the values of the gospel, but to live them.

David WaltersDavid was a poet, sharing his poems with me during my tenure at the church and still as we have both lived in retirement half a country apart. His poems are sometimes hard to read, because they expose the world as it is in all its cruelty and hypocrisy and injustice, but never, never despairing, always holding up the bright light of hope, hope rooted in a compassionate and faithful God, for all to see.

I grieve for a world without David’s voice, his voice that will not let us look away from the hurt and need around us, his voice that prods our consciences and pricks our apathy, his voice that invites us to rest, to believe and to rest and to live, within the loving embrace of the Lord.

As a tribute to David, and as avenue to permit his voice to be heard still, I intend to publish here in my online journal in these days before Christmas some of the poems David has shared with me. I begin with a poem especially dear to me because it was written during a sojourn shared by David and Debbie and me and other dear friends from the First Congregational United Church of Christ to Scotland and the Isle of Iona. Here is his poem …

finding Iona

Soon, the moment will pass and Iona will be a memory.
But the pictures we colored in our minds each day,
Of Scotland’s undomesticated beauty and perfect symmetry,
Will long remain etched beyond what words can say.
Yet I believe that the heart of Iona is not in what we see.
It lies at the center of where we feel
The love of One who lived and died without asking a fee.
And now dances laughing with anyone who would be free.
The vision of Iona reminds us of what we forgot,
Of two people who walk side by side willing to accept the cost.
They are you and me, broken and lost,
Until by faith we joined hands and became one with Him
whom we sought.

david walters
May 2015,
Isle of Iona, Scotland

Photo Gallery Relaunch

Photo Gallery Relaunch

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Photo Gallery masthead

I invite you to check out my newly redesigned Photo Gallery. I have spent considerable hours over the last several weeks during this time of self-isolation doing a complete overhaul of my photo gallery website. You will find a new layout, new indexes, and over fifty new galleries.

So … would you like to tour Maine? Or Scotland? Or the Big Island, Hawaii? Would you like to see puffins or whales or loons or harbor seals up close and personal? Would you like to visit stunning mountain summits or isolated islands or beautiful wilderness lakes?  Would you like to take a hike or go for a sail or visit an historic European city?

Come visit. Stay a while. And enjoy the view!

You may always access the site at https://photos.believersjournal.org. My Photo Gallery is also linked from this blog and from my sermon library site. When you arrive at the site, you may access galleries by scrolling through the pages or by consulting one of the indexes (Subjects and Tags). Click on the chain link symbol on any image to access a full gallery of images. Click on any gallery thumbnail to open a lightbox slideshow.

Unexpected stillness

Unexpected stillness

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“May God bless this unexpected stillness in our lives.”

I have been corresponding with Kirsten, our dear friend from Edinburgh, Scotland. My wife, Lynne, and I have plans to travel to Scotland for two weeks in July. We intend to revisit many of our favorite destinations — Stonehaven, Edinburgh, Glencoe, Oban, Loch Lomond, Skye, Iona — as well as introduce two Iowa friends to this magical land.

The trip has been in the works for over a year and I have already made all the reservations for flights, rental car, housing, a Skye boat trip, and even a birthday meal for Lynne at a favorite Stonehaven restaurant. But now, because of this global pandemic, our trip seems very much in doubt.

Kirsten ended her most recent email, responding to my inquiries about the state of life in Scotland under the current lockdown orders, with those words: “May God bless this unexpected stillness in our lives.”

Oh, my …

Unexpected stillness. May God bless this unexpected stillness. Her words pierced me to my core and brought tears to my eyes. Such a simple description of our present state of being, but so lyrical, poignant, moving, and hopeful.

Unexpected stillness. This is a stillness, but stillness can be a gift. Unexpected stillness can be an unexpected gift. We are obliged to set aside most of our usual comings and goings, much of our usual busyness. We are constrained to be quiet, often alone or with just a few nearby, to be still. But in the stillness … we may hear other voices, we may hear other things, we may remember, we may discover, there may be space enough in us … for God to fill. In the stillness, we may be blessed.

May God bless this unexpected stillness in our lives …