Author: Penney Rahm

When I was a kid, I loved Christmas. My dad and I tromped around the tree farm, often wading through knee high snow, until we finally discovered the perfect Christmas tree. Dad would saw it down and together, we would drag it to the car. In a day or two, the heaviest snow and icicles would drop off and we could bring it in to decorate.

Each year we delighted in the excitement of rediscovering the Christmas ornaments and carefully hanging them on the tree. “This one came from my grandmother’s,” Mom would say, as I lifted the delicate, gold filigree creche from its wrapping paper and hung it on the tree. We gently handled the wax snowmen, Santas and angels. Much of their color had worn off and many were misshapen and melted from spending too much time in the summer attic. Almost every ornament had a story to tell. Mom would finish off the tree by laying the tinsel strand by strand on each branch.

I loved the smells of Christmas: the pungent pine, the stick of cinnamon in a cup of hot tea, and Dad’s tart apple pie baking on the afternoon Mom would get away to do her Christmas shopping. I loved the crispness of the winter air that froze my nose and revealed my breath and made me cough as it frosted my windpipe. Everything seemed to smell crisper and more alive in December.

Then there was the challenge of finding where Mom hid the presents each year. I prided myself on knowing everything that would be under the tree and could never understand why my brother John never wanted to know what surprises were in store for him. Late on Christmas Eve, after everyone else was asleep, I would slink downstairs and carefully walk through the house until I reached the tree. By the light of the moon shining through the living room window, I would underneath the tree to see if I had missed anything.

These were the idyllic memories that could make themselves at home in a Hallmark movie.

Then John died on the second of January in 1975. I had just returned to work in Roanoke after being home for Christmas. The next time I saw him, he was lying in a casket. The following Christmas, my parents came to my apartment. In anticipation, I bought a tree, sawed off the end and stood it in the corner of the living room. I bought decorations, including small, costumed cardboard kittens that I still have. I even laughed when the tree, in slow motion, crashed to the floor, strewing dirt and water on my carpet. My first Christmas in my first home of my own. Despite the strangeness and sadness of John’s absence, we were able to celebrate.

After I became a pastor, I had the added joy of planning Advent and Christmas services for my congregations. Singing the carols drew me into the mystery of God-come-to earth. For four years, my parents came north from their retirement home in Beaufort, so we could be together. Most years brought only an occasional moment of sadness as I remembered John and spotted a tear in the corner of Mom or Dad’s eye.

In January 1985, my father was stricken with 2 different kinds of cancer. Throughout the year, the doctors said he was getting well. In mid-December, they finally said he was dying, but would probably live another month or two. I made plans to drive down on Christmas day. Two days before Christmas in 1985, Dad died. I didn’t get to say, “Good-bye,” to him either. I flew down immediately, but it was too late. The next time I saw my dad was in the summer. His cremains were in a cardboard box in a hot pink shopping bag.

The following December, Mom drove by herself to my house, which was 800 miles away, by herself. I spent the week before Christmas driving 100-mile circuits to visit parishioners in three different hospitals. I was exhausted and hadn’t done any decorating. Late one evening two days before Christmas, she insisted we stop at the drug store and buy an artificial tree. The only one left was the store display, which was filled with tacky wooden ornaments. At least we had a tree. We ate Christmas dinner with church friends. Mom stayed for several more weeks. We didn’t get out much because of the snow. We were both missing John and Dad, but we talked about everything else.

For the next 26 years, Mom traveled north every Christmas, except the year I left for Israel a few days after Christmas. After two or three years, she exchanged the car for a plane ticket. We always had a good time together. We shopped at Boscov’s, wrapped our secrets for each other, and stayed up late drinking a bourbon and remembering Christmases past. As we decorated the tree and set up the nativities, we reminisced about the origins of the ornaments and memories of earlier years when John and Dad were present. One of our great joys was driving through the neighborhoods to delight in the Christmas lights.

Some years we joined my friend and her mom at a restaurant before attending the annual presentation of The Messiah. The exquisite beauty of Handel’s oratorio, culminating in the majesty of The Hallelujah Chorus, filled my heart with joy and hope. Bursting with the fullness of Christmas, I was ready to lead the congregation in the journey to the manger.

Although we often ate Christmas dinner with parishioners, there were several years when we decided to roasted our own turkey and devour oyster stuffing. We ate turkey sandwiches for days, before finally boiling the carcass for turkey soup.

Over the years, we celebrated Christmas Eve in five different parsonages with nine different congregations. After services, we would sip eggnog, open one gift apiece, listen to Christmas music, and read Christmas cards. In the morning, we would sip our coffee, open our other gifts, and feast on Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. The day sped by.

In November 2013, my mother had a major stroke, which affected her speech and slowed her reasoning. I sped down Route 81, not knowing whether I would find her alive. However, after only a few days, she was transported from Charleston to the rehab unit in the Beaufort hospital. I returned home just before Thanksgiving to prepare for Advent and Christmas in Clearfield. Early on Christmas Eve day, I packed my car early and drove off immediately after the Christmas Eve service. I equipped it with 3 blankets and my fur-covered ear-flapper hat to bundle up in when I pulled over to sleep. I wanted to get to Beaufort to the rehab facility to which she had moved after Thanksgiving.

I didn’t dare wait until morning because a huge snowstorm was coming up from the south. If I waited, it could have been days until the road was passable. The night was clear and filled with stars. God gave me a beautiful night to drive and I sensed his presence throughout the trip. Singing carols most of the night, I drove over 600 miles before it started snowing. I continued through Charlotte, passing Columbia at about 5. By then, with the snow blinding me and my eyes closing with fatigue, I found a rest area and pulled off. After locking myself in the car, swaddling myself in blankets, and pulling the hat down over my head, I fell asleep for a few hours.

My efforts were rewarded when I walked into the living area and surprised Mom. We enjoyed that week and we were both delighted with the progress she was making. Eventually, she came to live with me in Pennsylvania until I retired in 2015 and we returned to Beaufort. That Christmas, we bought a seven-foot tree that almost touched the ceiling. We pulled out every ornament and Mom directed where to put them. We filled the dining room with my Fontinini nativity village. At Mom’s urging we visited the nativity display at her Presbyterian church. She was proud of the event and had always wanted me to see it. She was thrilled to see her friends after two years. We had a wonderful time and celebrated Christmas Eve at the Waters Edge church.

Last Christmas was different. Mom became frailer after we evacuated during Matthew. We drove around to see the lights, but she was exhausted by the time we came home. I didn’t have the energy to set up the tree, but we did visit the nativities at her church again. On Christmas Day, I was blessed to be able to preach and lead worship. When I came home, I wished her a “Merry Christmas” and gave her a few small gifts. She was surprised. She hadn’t realized that it was Christmas. We did go to a friend’s home for dinner and Mom enjoyed those prime ribs. Except for the dinner reprieve, the day seemed endless.

For the first time in decades, Mom didn’t go to the Christmas Eve service. For the first time, I was alone. It was a foretaste of days ahead.

Mom died Mom died on March 29, 2017 at the Beaufort Hospital. She was 91.for the third time, I was not with a person I loved. But at least this time, I was able to sit and talk with he, hold her hand, say “Good-bye” before the funeral home came to take her.

As November approached this fall, I felt a heaviness come over me. Dad would have been 99 on Thanksgiving. He died on December 23. John died on January 2. On the 9^th, he would have been 22. I was not present when they died. John’s been gone 42 years Dad, 32, and Mom for almost a year.

. As Thanksgiving neared, the emptiness moved into my heart. Yes, I have friends, but my closest ones live hundreds of miles away. I have not seen any of my cousins for years, even decades. I never married. I have no children. I alone am left. I am the last leaf on our branch of both family trees. When I die, that leaf will flutter to the ground and be indistinguishable from all the others.

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I walked out of church after 10 minutes. People were still basking in the togetherness of family Thanksgiving. There were families of various sizes: couples, couples with children, couples with children and grandchildren filled the sanctuary with palpable happiness. I could not sing. I felt as if I were drowning in my big empty pool, unable to reach out for a lifeline even if someone was throwing one. At that moment, drowning would have been a gift.

My season of grief extends from Thanksgiving through Valentine’s Day. Dad, John, two grandparents, a family friend, and a college roommate all died during that stretch. The holidays magnify the sadness and loneliness.

Christmas music that has always brought me joy now brings me to tears. The thought of decorating a tree or putting up a nativity set is immobilizing. I cannot bring myself to send Christmas letters to Mom’s friends to let them know she died. The Christmas lights shine dimly for me. My memories of Christmas past are breaking my heart.

I feel as if I am on the outside looking into an enormous snow globe of Christmas joy and happiness that the rest of the world is enjoying. The peace of Christ has deserted me. Hope seems an empty promise.

I shy away from people now. I do not want the darkness of my spirit to dampen the celebratory good will of others. I am suffering from “fa-la-lalessness” and I do not want to quench their merriment. In turn, their happiness pierces me and I find myself in the “bleak midwinter.” My heart still remembers the joy of Christmas, but for now it is closed to keep the pain at bay.

This Christmas, I’m going away with friends. We will experience Christmas in an entirely new way. This, I trust, will be good for us all.

Someday, I believe, I will once again sing Christmas carols with joy and faith, although they will be colored and deepened by suffering. One day, the memories held in ornaments, a Christmas tree, roasting turkey and twinkling lights will warm my heart with happiness. One day, the peace of Christ will comfort me again. One day, joy to the world will be joy to me, too.

Until then, I’ll trust that Emmanuel, God-with-us, is with me, beside me even though I am sitting on the outside of life and hope. Deep within me, though I don’t hear or see him in my grief, I choose to trust that Jesus weeps with me.

One day I will rejoice and celebrate again. But not today.

A knock on the door startled me. Who on earth was at my front door 90 minutes before the Thanksgiving service? Couldn’t they have waited until I got to the church?  Didn’t they know I had to finish packing so I could leave right after the service?

Grumbling and trying to muster up a smile, I walked to the door. Pastor’s job, right? I threw open the door and saw a complete stranger. I wasn’t overly surprised. We occasionally got strangers in the small town of Savona, New York, because we were an exit on Route 17, a major east-west highway.  I asked if I could help him. He said someone had told him I might be able to give him something to eat. Must be someone didn’t know I never had much food around when I was leaving for three days.

I invited him in, telling him there were slim pickings. He said he’d be grateful for anything. He was tall, broad shouldered and spoke with the most charming British accent. Who could resist that?

I offered him an elegant repast of a half stale donut and a can of cream of mushroom soup I stirred up with a can of water. Yum. With a graciousness, I couldn’t have conjured up, he thanked me and swallowed it eagerly. He must have been hungry.

Newly arrived from Canada, he said he had lost his passport and was on his way to the British consulate in New Your City. He was exhausted. Preoccupation with the nuances of worship kept me from noticing he had no luggage. That should have seemed peculiar.

Then I had a brilliant idea. I called Pat and John, my closest friends from seminary days, to see if it would be okay to invite him for an American Thanksgiving dinner. They were all in. The adventure I was always seeking was sitting at my kitchen table.

I returned to the kitchen. “Rather than trying to hitch to New York City during the holiday rush, how would you like to travel with me to my friends in Pennsylvania and enjoy Thanksgiving with us?” I asked. “The only catch is, you have to join me for worship first.”

After he agreed, I remembered that I had forgotten my manners. We hadn’t even exchanged names. I told him mine. He reciprocated. Jonathan Winters. No, not that one. But the humorous nature of the situation now seemed apparent. The universe, winking madly, had realigned itself, to provide an unexpected situation.

An hour later, we walked over to the church. Inviting him to find a pew, I                             left him to finish preparations for the service. My first task was to approach the choir members, tell them to take a good look at the stranger, and imprint his features on their memories. They would be helpful to tell the police if I didn’t return on Sunday. I wasn’t really concerned, just taking appropriate precautions. After all it was the 1980’s.

After the service and good-byes to the congregation, we walked back to the house. I left food out for the cat and grabbed my suitcase. Then together, Jonathan and I set out on our two-hour trip to Gibson, Pennsylvania.

Fortunately, he was a great conversationalist, and the time passed quickly. He had taken a leave of absence from his teaching position at one of the universities in England. By about 10:30, we arrived at Pat and John’s. After introductions were made, we talked, sipped soda, and snacked on chips and dip. By midnight, Jonathan was a bit fidgety.

He asked if they had any wine or other alcoholic beverage. I laughed and told him my friends didn’t even use wine vinegar. He tried, not too successfully, to relax and soon went upstairs to bed.

Pat, John and I followed. Thursday was our day to relax and unwind. It had become our tradition to wait until Friday to have our Thanksgiving feast. Thursday was for cheese and crackers, pepperoni, frozen pizza and multiple two-liter bottles of soda. John and I would nestle into our chairs for the football games. Between bouts of harassing us for being lazy, Pat would walk around the neighborhood. John and I enjoyed her walks and the ensuing silence.

The addition of Jonathan Winters changed our pattern somewhat. We still ate our goodies and John watched every pass and tackle. I checked on the progress of the game when John cheered or yelled derisively at the set. But all that afternoon and much of the evening, Pat, Jonathan and I engaged in a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit.

Games like Trivial Pursuit lend themselves to conversation. Pat and I told Jonathan how our friendship began in seminary until she “traded up” for John. The three of us had remained the best of friends even now that our churches were miles away from each other.

Jonathan talked about life as a history professor. As the day lengthened and he began getting restless again, he told us that his wife of 10 years had had an affair and told him she was getting a divorce.

We commiserated with him, offering sympathy and another ginger ale. It was clear he preferred something with more “spiritual” qualities. When John joined us after his games, Jonathan explained that he had taken a leave from the university to get away from his domestic upheaval. He had become depressed and needed a change of scenery, so he travelled to Canada. Our heads snapped back when he told us he had lost over $10,000 gambling.

Still later, we asked how he had lost his passport. By now his tongue was as loose as it would have been after drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels. Evidently, sobriety had not been a recent activity.

Jonathan confessed that he hadn’t actually lost his passport. It was secure in the hotel safe. It would be returned when he paid the $700 hotel tab. Since he didn’t have the money, he had simply walked across the border and begun hitching. His goal was to get to New York City, where no one would think to check a hotel in Canada. The tall tale he would concoct would get him sympathy and a new passport so he could return to England.

When Jonathan’s story, which he told in bits and pieces over the evening, finally completed the puzzle that had been on our minds, we came to an alarming conclusion: we were harboring an international felon!

With that realization, the festive spirit dried up quickly. John and Pat were uncomfortable with having a criminal in their home. I didn’t think he was dangerous, but I was concerned about what our superiors and congregations would think if they ever found out.

The party ended and we all went to bed. In the morning John dragged himself out of bed and popped the turkey in the oven. Pat and I peeled potatoes, concocted a delicious stuffing, stirred gravy, and creamed onions.

Jonathan went for a walk. His edginess at having had no alcohol for 48 hours was taking a toll on his nerves. While he was gone, the three of us discussed what to do next. We finally decided that after dinner John would take him to the bus station in Scranton. We pooled our money to come up with $20 to buy him a ticket. We called and found out there was a bus leaving at 7.

Jonathan enjoyed his American Thanksgiving. Conversation was light and humorous. Postponing his highly anticipated turkey-induced nap, John drove Jonathan to the bus station. While they were gone, Pat and I cleaned up and put away the food. John returned safely. Jonathan gratefully boarded the bus to continue his saga and perhaps find a drink.

The three of us fell asleep with a bowl of chips on the table. Once we had discovered what he had done, our anxiety levels rose and we found ourselves exhausted.

Since that day, however, we have gleefully claimed the experience as one of our  most memorable Thanksgiving memories and delight in retelling it to one another.  But I always wonder whatever happened to Jonathan Winters.

Prior to entering the ministry, I was employed by what is now known as the Department of Energy. My job was to check gas stations and oil companies for adherence to price controls. In 1975, we were called upon to check out coal company prices, although they were not under government regulations. This is one of the stories of those 2 years I spent working out of the office in Roanoke, Virginia.

GALAX

I drove into Galax, small-town cozily tucked away in southern Virginia, looking for the Baker Coal Company. This month our assignment as Federal Energy Administration investigators, was to visit all the local coal companies in Virginia to determine whether or not coal prices were rising as quickly as gasoline prices. The year was 1975.

Down by the railroad tracks, I finally spied the building. This was not a large prosperous concern. Instead I was looking at a wooden shack that had seen better days. There wasn’t enough paint left on it to even say it was peeling. The windows were so thick with coal dust, I couldn’t see inside.

A sign on the door declared “Gone fishin’. Call Ezra if you need me.”

Since I didn’t know Ezra or his phone number, I continued on down the road. On my return trip, I tried again and found the door jar.

I stepped into a room which might have been medicinal green years earlier, but now was called dust gray. An old well-used Ben Franklin stove stood in the middle of the room. The ceiling around the stove pipe was an even darker gray.

I immediately saw three or four moth-eaten cats meandering around the room, which was no larger than my bedroom when I was growing up. One cat had one eye, one had a half- eaten tail, the other glared at me. In the corner was a spittoon surrounded by years of misses. I wanted to turn around and leave so I could drive home and wash my clothes. I felt filth penetrating my shirt and skin as I stood there.

I hesitated when I heard the doorknob turn. In walked a tall, broad-shouldered man who matched the room. He looked as old as his stove. His full head of gray hair hadn’t been washed for months, but was a good match for the five-day growth of coarse gray stubble that covered his face. The hairs were long enough to have caught random pieces of spittle and tobacco, which dotted his chin.

His coveralls were gray, too, but whether by design or wear was a toss-up. I could tell he had had eggs and sausage gravy to eat within the last week.        Even if I hadn’t heard him, I would’ve known he had come in by the aroma which walked in with him. I was afraid I could touch the fragrance of sweat and body odor, which overcame the room. My nostrils quivered and my stomach lurched in revolt.

Yet he had kind, sparkling eyes and wrinkles born of laughter. I stuck out my hand out of habit and introduced myself. His giant, grimy paw grabbed mine. He smiled and opened his mouth to tell me his name.

Where most people have teeth, he had gaping black holes, accented by a few worn down yellowed stubs. Tobacco juice adhered to the remnants of the teeth and the corners of his mouth. “I’m Ben Baker. Pleased to meet you. What kin I do for ya, girlie?”

I told him I needed to ask him some questions about his business and asked if I could lay out my paperwork on the drawing desk in a small alcove in the corner of the main room. He nodded and pointed. The desk was surprisingly clean and uncluttered.

“How long have you owned the business? How much coal do you sell? Has the amount increased or decreased since the gas crisis? Have your prices changed over these last two years?” I ran down the questions as quickly as he could give answers, so that I could leave.

Unfortunately, he was hesitant to answer. I wasn’t sure whether that was because he wasn’t certain or he resented a revenuer, as he called me, prying into his business. Slowly, I was collecting the information I needed.

I asked the next question, but he didn’t respond. Continuing to look down at my paperwork, I repeated the question. When he still didn’t answer, I looked up. He was standing with his arms touching the walls on either side of me, blocking my exit from the alcove with his body. His proximity startled me. I was about to repeat the question, when he asked politely, “Would you like to give me a kiss, Sweetie?”

What I thought was, “You are the last person on earth I would want to kiss, you filthy pervert.” What came out was, “No thank you, sir. Thank you for your cooperation,” as I hastily shoved pen and paper work into my briefcase. Then using the briefcase as a shield, I pushed my way forward and ducked under his arm.

I wasn’t fast, but I was quicker than he was. Cats scattered in all directions as I bolted out the door, jumped in my car, locked the doors and sped across the railroad tracks back to civilization. Two hours later, I was in my shower, scrubbing myself from head to foot.

Back at the office the next day, I wrote” Survey terminated prior to completion,” with a detailed explanation of events. My gentlemanly boss in Richmond called to check on me and assured me I wouldn’t have to go back. Neither did he send anyone else to finish up.

As I’m writing this, I wonder whether he really was the creepy, lonely old man I thought he was. Maybe it was a deliberate ploy by a sly old fox to avoid giving the government any more information. If it was, it worked.

With all the protests that have taken place since the new administration took office, I remembered a time, almost 50 years ago, when I was young and angry with the administration’s war in Viet Nam. It was another time, a different issue, but the same desire to make our voices heard and change the situation. I dedicate this to non-violent protesters now and then. Keep fighting the good fight.

MARCHING ON WASHINGTON

The campus was buzzing with rumors. “Come to the gym at 6:00 if you have a bus ticket.” “Emergency meeting for bus passengers.” The signs were posted all over the campus.

Like a lemming, I followed the trail of students to the gym. Hundreds of us filled the bleachers on one side. What was happening? We were only three days from a mass migration to Washington, D.C. for the Moratorium to end the war in Viet Nam. Our school, Harpur College, had booked 19 busses to take students and faculty there and back. Over a thousand of us were to join the thousands more, maybe hundreds of thousands, to protest the war in Viet Nam.

It was November 1969.

One of the leaders tapped on the microphone. The gym immediately became silent.

“We have a problem,” he began. “The FBI has threatened Greyhound with a complete shut down if they take any students to the march. They told Greyhound that the FBI would cite every worn tire, burnt out parking light, unrepaired dent and anything else they could find. The FBI is determined to shut down the protest by shutting down the bus companies. Greyhound knuckled under. They have cancelled the buses.

“But, we are not going to let the government deter us,”he shouted into the mike. “We are going to Washington.”

With that the audience broke into cheers.

Quickly, they organized car pools. People willing to drive moved to one side. The rest of us found one of them and signed on for a ride. Instead of nineteen buses, hundreds of cars would travel to Washington. The march would not be silenced.

Three days later, I climbed into a compact car with five other people. A French professor had agreed to drive down on Friday and drop us off. After the March on Saturday, we would meet at a designated place for the ride home. In the trunk were four grocery bags, each packed with 4 box lunches from the cafeteria to sustain us.

Darkness was settling in when he let us off at a midtown church. We had been told back at the college that we could stay here for the night. The professor and his girlfriend were spending the night with friends in the city.

Although tired from the six-hour trip, we were buoyed up with enthusiasm. We entered the church and began to walk into the sanctuary to set up camp for the night.  That was when the adventure began in earnest. One of the organizers stopped us. “You can’t stay here. This is only for the leaders from each campus.”

We were dumbfounded…and worried. None of us knew our way around Washington. One of us asked where we could go. The organizer gave us a piece of paper with an address. “Go up Connecticut Avenue to this address. There’s another church there that will be open.”

I looked at the paper in my hand. 10101 Connecticut Avenue. We started out in the direction he had pointed.

By now it was dark. A cold mist fell on us. We saw people with candles making their way to the White House for a vigil. I could also see my breath. The bag of food grew heavier and moister.

Our initial exuberance waned and our pace slowed as we walked. We were cold and hungry as we followed our own version of the Yellow Brick Road. We knew we weren’t in upstate New York anymore. We could only hope something like the Emerald City lay not too far ahead.

As we walked, I began taking note of the addresses on the buildings. They were going up. Then I realized something else.  With a forced calm, I said to my companions, “I just realized that these blocks are only going up by 100. To get to 10101, we’re going to walk miles. I bet this church is in Maryland.”

We didn’t know what to do. Our legs would not carry us that far. In an instant, we had gone from jubilant, determined protesters to wet and frightened 19-year olds.

With no alternative plan, we kept walking. A few blocks later, we saw some other people coming out of a side street. We asked them if they knew of any place we could go inside, sit, warm up, and rest for a while.

“There’s a church just down the street. They’re friendly. You can go there and rest. They even have coffee.”

We thanked them, picked up our pace and quickly found ourselves at the door of the church. We were welcomed immediately and ushered into a large room filled with chairs and tables.

Some people were eating, others were stretching out their legs while they sat. Still others were singing folk songs and discussing politics. A few were curled up in a corner sleeping. We plunked ourselves down, thankful to be safe and out of the cold. We each began eating one of our box lunches. We were hungry and also wanted to lighten our load.

As we sat in their social hall, a man came up and said he and his wife had room for four. We raised our hands and followed him out. We were rescued. We were blessed. Our energy surged. We were okay. More than okay. Only the realization that I had lost my student I.D. lessened my sense of relief. But I decided to worry about that when I got home.

We soon arrived at a small Cape Cod house in one of the suburbs of D.C. We had no idea where we were geographically, but, we had the feeling that we were home, warm and safe.

I immediately noticed that every appliance and piece of furniture in the kitchen had a lettered sign with the name of the item in English and another language, which I learned was German.

Our host’s wife was from Germany. The signs were there to help their two children grow up bilingual. The husband worked for the U.S. Bureau of Statistics. I hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble for giving sanctuary to protesters.

They showed us to our rooms. That night we slept in feather beds, soft and cozy. Exhausted by the emotions and events of the day, we quickly fell asleep.

Tomorrow would be an adventure we did not want to miss.

Our “foster” father drove us back into D.C. in the morning and let us out near the reflecting pool. By now, we were only toting a couple of the boxed meals. We found ourselves immediately immersed in the moment. We were marching and singing and talking with those around us.

Students had come from all over the country. We met folks from Michigan University, the University of Chicago, Princeton, Purdue, Cornell, Virginia Tech, and the University of Pennsylvania. We hoped that our actions would shorten the war. The air was alive with goodwill. We later learned that we were part of the largest demonstration up to that time, numbering over a half a million.

We were fortunate to be near the Washington Monument when Peter, Paul, and Mary began to sing. We sang with them: “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Times They Are a Changing” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”  We sang with joy and a fervor that came from believing we were making a difference. There was a positive spirit. Despite our anger with the powers that kept us in the war, we were filled with the naive belief that our actions could end the war.

The day galloped along as we listened to speakers, shouted in unison to bring the troops home, and tried to take in everything while living in the moment. We were not aware of any large police presence, although they must have stood on the periphery, just in case violence broke out. When the program ended, we all dispersed to our respective means of transportation. The French professor and his girlfriend were waiting for us. We piled into the car and shared our stories and observations. We were tired, but feeling good about the day.

We listened to the news on the car radio. On Friday night, only a few blocks up Connecticut Avenue from where we had turned off to the church, a group called the Weathermen set off some small explosives and started a riot. Had we continued up that street, we would have found ourselves in the middle of a violent protest.

Even the least religious of us said a short prayer of thanks.

Monday, we returned to classes. Nothing changed. The war continued for another 6 years. But, at least, for a few months, I felt like I had done something to try to change the world.

A week later, I found an envelope in my mailbox. In it, was my student I.D.

Yesterday, I found myself in a writing mode. I took my journal and a book with me to a restaurant. Usually, I don’t write while I eat, but I remembered a moment from my years in college and wanted to put it down on paper. I kept writing, even when I was trying to eat wings and blue cheese. A storm came up and the rain poured for a short time. When I finished, I walked along the waterfront park by the river. Sitting on a bench, I began writing what I was seeing. These 2 short essays are the products of the day. I hope you can, in some way, see what I was seeing as I wrote.

HARPUR – I WAS THE GROUND

There was a night, my sophomore year at Harpur, that I walked out of my dorm and started down the hill. I was going no place in particular. That in itself was unusual. I only walked to get somewhere.

But that evening, dusk deepening, I felt lost and meandered into the trees. It might have been November or maybe October. The air was whispering snow, but only autumn leftovers were on the ground. Dried orange and yellow desiccated leaves crunched beneath my feet.

I became aware of speckles of snow dotting my glasses. As I looked through the canopy of barren branches, I saw the moon beginning to crouch behind the clouds. The stars drew back, but still sparkled as the snow became firmer, more intentional. At first, the ground quickly swallowed the flakes with her warmth. I was glad I had worn my heavy watch cap and warm gloves. The temperature was rapidly descending. I could see the frosting up of my breath. If I had spoken, I may have been able to see the words. Eternity sped by and was nearing its end, swallowing up the moment. Since I was nowhere in particular, I lay down, wondering what the ground must feel like as it was covered by the frigid virgin snow. As I lay there, arms extended loosely by my side, I could see the snow begin to drape my royal blue jacket. Because of my glasses, I the ground, could see what it was like to go slowly blind, as first, droplets clouded my view like cataracts, then flakes congealed on the lenses and obscured my view.

I felt myself drifting off to sleep, cold and content. I was no longer me. I was the ground, one with the tree, the snow, the leaves. I was every thing. I was no thing. I was. I was alive and I belonged in this moment.

Eventually, I was seized by a shiver that started at my fingers and moved up to my chest. My toes were numb, I realized. My reverie burst into an awareness that I was freezing.

I lingered a moment before sitting up. I was aware my jeans were wet. I wondered if the ground was aware that summer’s heat and autumn’s dryness were speeding away, unable to shake the bitterness to come.

I stood and I looked around at the remnants of dirt, leaves and grass around me. Then I brushed the snow off my clothes and wriggled my fingers inside the gloves. As I climbed the hill back to the light and warmth of the dorm, I remembered: winters are long in Binghamton.

A DAY AT THE WATERFRONT PARK

The clouds balled up like fists and pelted the strollers with needles of rain. People scurried to find shelter. Sheets of water raced across the pavement, soaking benches, walkways, and uncovered heads. The winds drove the rains across the river to burst against the cement barricades and splash the sidewalk and benches.

10 minutes. Maybe 12. The rain stopped, blown out of town by a relentless fury of cooler air. The sun darted out and lit up the sky saying, “This is my town. No room for storms today.”

As I sit here on a park bench too big for my short legs, I watch the water, waves racing to the wall.   When I sat down to expose myself to the shining vitamin D in the sky, 20 minutes after the downpour, the bench was already dry. Several people are sitting on the swings, feeling for a few minutes like children on the first day of spring. I, in turn, kick my legs back and forth because they do not reach the ground.

Some of the trees are bending over backward, conceding the power of the thundering wind. The sound reminds me of the roar of a seashell held to my ear. As strong as it is, I think it is playful today rather than angry, encouraging the leaves to titter with the latest gossip.

It is an afternoon for smiling. The sea is rumbling strongly, but safely contained… for now. The water is a battleship gray, darker where the clouds shadow it from the sun. Five horizontal lines of cloud hang over the swing bridge. Maybe they are the musical staff on which God is composing today’s symphony.

A solitary unseen bird scolds occasionally from a nearby perch. One small bird, flying low over the waves, was startled by a sudden white-tipped peak that sprayed its wings.

There is a light mist in the distance giving Lady’s Island a mysterious, almost ghostly appearance. In an adventurous corner of my mind, I can imagine sailing a skiff across the river to look for pirate treasure or the secret burial site of an extinct tribe.

The boats are all deserted today, sails rolled up tightly, sitting snugly at anchor. I wonder if they are missing the excitement of feeling the wind launch them up the channel or riding the waters like a cowboy on an unbroken horse.

I smile at a woman as she walks by and she returns the smile. A few minutes later, she walks back and stops. “What are you writing?” she asks.

I answer, “All of this,” and sweep my hand across in front of me.

The petite woman in white and I talk for a few moments. When she asks what I did for a living, I tell her I was a pastor. She tells me that she is a psychic. We were enjoying the back and forth until her no nonsense sister walked up and asked what she was doing. She looks like a woman on a mission. She dismisses me with a nod and asks her sister which way she was walking. The psychic and I smile as she turns and walks away with her sister, who might have been her twin. I’m sorry she had to leave. I enjoy conversations with strangers and I had never met a psychic before. Such encounters have, on occasion, led to new insights and adventures. I return to my journal and allow the sun to warm my face.

As I write, I discover that the picture I have painted with my words is as vivid and permanent as the paintings and photos I see in the nearby galleries. The scene is engraved in the album I keep in my mind. I thank God for giving me words: endless, ordinary, exotic, nuanced words to color my world, tickle my imagination, and enjoy the majesty of creation.

God woke me up at 6:00 this morning, an hour before I needed to get up. I knew I had to write. I hope this short writing blesses you on Resurrection Day.

EASTER MORNING

Barely enough light trickled through to allow them to see. As they trudged along the path, they struggled to see anything through the tears. Silence reverberated through their grief, as if words would never matter again. Would anything matter?

Jesus was dead. Buried. Decaying in a tomb. They were terrified that the soldiers would send them away. Terrified they might arrest them. Terrified that they could not move the stone. Terrified that the stench would overwhelm them. Terrified that even honoring him with proper burial spices would not relieve the pain at all. Terrified that they were absolutely alone now. Terrified that their lives were over, too. Terrified.

As they approached the tomb, the light increased, but it was not sunlight. The light came from two beings. Men, but not men – their clothes shining in the midst of the nascent dawn.

The women were startled. They should have been frightened, but all their fear was already used up. They stared without comprehension. Why were they here? What did they want?

“He’s not here, you know,” they smiled gently. “He is risen – just as he said. Come, see for yourself.” They stepped aside and assured the women into the tomb. The slab on which he had been laid was empty, except for the neatly folded grave clothes.

The women looked at one another, still silent. Still no words. Friday their hope had been silenced. Now this. What was this? Another layer of grief? Another injustice done to their friend?

They turn to ask their silent questions of the two men. They were gone, but the light persisted. Could it be? Could it?

Anyone looking closely might have seen the weak glowing of an ember, thought dead, in their hearts. In their confusion and sadness, the hint of a flame flickered.

“He is risen?” One of the women asked quietly, testing her voice.

“He is risen,” another said, testing its possibility.

“He said he had to die.”

“He said he would rise again.”

“Maybe,” one said.

“It could be,” another answered.

“He did promise,” said a third tentatively.

“He always kept his word,” said a fourth, more firmly.

“He is risen,” they said as one. As they spoke in unison, the flames in their heart grew brighter. The sunrise broke through their darkness.

They joined hands and began to run to tell the others. Laughter and singing pushed out the silence. Fear had been replaced with joy. They had not yet seen him, but they knew he was alive, this time for ever.

They, too, were alive. More alive than ever.

Mom’s memorial service, which I would rather think of as a celebration of her life, was yesterday, April 7. These are the words I spoke at that service.

 MOM

My mom was the oldest of four siblings, who were seven, nine, and 12 years younger than she was. My grandmother preferred to do the cooking and sewing and leave the child care to Mom. This resulted in two things. 1) When Mom got married she couldn’t cook or sew. Dad taught her to cook. She got so she could sew on buttons and hem a dress, but never became a seamstress like her sisters. And 2) when I became an adult she told me I didn’t have to have grandchildren for her. She loved John and me and I could bring grandchildren to visit, but “don’t think I’ll babysit them. I raised mine already,” she said. That may sound cruel, but it gave me permission to be who God called me to be and to remain single without guilt.

Mom grew up during the depression in Waterford, Connecticut. She loved to dance and always wished she had been able to take lessons. I think her one regret in marrying my dad was that he did not like to dance and had two left feet when he did.

They met at the submarine base in Groton, Connecticut after World War II. Mom began working there right after high school during the war. Dad was stationed there after spending the war in a sub in the Pacific. He was 6 ½ years older than she was – 27 to her 20 when she agreed to go out with him. After dad died, she told me she had turned him down several times because he had “bedroom eyes.”

They began dating in November 1945 and were married July 10, 1946 – only 15 days after she turned 21. She became a Navy wife, moving often until he retired 14 years later. Except for the years we lived in Great Lakes, Illinois, Dad had times of sea duty. During one six week cruise, John and I both had German measles and chickenpox. Dad wondered why Mom look so tired when he got home. When I was four and John a year and a half, Dad went on a six-month cruise. She packed us up and drove by herself from Norfolk back to Connecticut. She loved to drive.

In 1960, just before dad retired, they learned that my brother had Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. In these days before schools were required to bring disabled children to school, my mom took John every day beginning in the first grade. She brought him home for lunch then back to school and then picked him up at the end of the day. When he was in the fourth grade, he had to use a wheelchair. From that time on, she would lift John in and out of the wheelchair and in and out of the car using her own strength and then later on using a Hoyer lift, one in John’s room and another on the car roof. She made sure that he got to school every day. Even when authorities made it difficult for John to attend, she fought for him. Because of her John graduated on time with his high school class in 1971.

After he died in 1975, Mom and Dad became active in their Presbyterian Church in Warminster, Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia. At one point, Mom served as a deacon. Soon, with Mom as spokesperson and Dad ask quiet assistant, they taught disability awareness in churches in their presbytery. At the same time, Mom also became active in the Muscular Dystrophy Association. For several years, she ran the phone center at a local mall for the Jerry Lewis telethon. She was responsible for getting and feeding over 50 volunteers, counting pledges, as well as setting up and taking down the center. Before they moved south, she was honored by the Association. She even got a kiss from Philly pitcher, Tug McGraw, father of country singer Tim McGraw.

When my Dad retired, they moved to Beaufort and bought a small boat. They relished going out for the day to fish or crab or shrimp. They had two years of blissful retirement. In January 1985, they discovered Dad had prostate, then bladder cancer. He died two days before Christmas that same year.

Mom came and stayed with me for couple of months, but Beaufort was her home. She came back and developed her new life –– the first time she was ever alone with no one to care for. She developed a new life, which she imbued with enthusiasm and joy. She began singing in the church choir until her hips got too bad to climb the stairs. She sang and danced in the chorus of the Little Theater productions of My Fair Lady and Oliver. She loved those days and had a grand time.

About a year after Dad died, she told me that if she married again, she wanted a rich man who could dance. Several years later, she called to say, “If I ever tell you I’m getting married again, come down here immediately and see if I need to go to the home.”

My Mom was friendly and would talk to anyone. One time she was coming to my house from Danbury, Connecticut. There was a traffic jam on the Tappan Zee Bridge and she was stuck for over an hour. When she was able to travel again, she stopped at a diner to have lunch and use the facilities. Everyone else had the same idea. While she was eating, a woman asked her if she could sit at her table because it was crowded. Mom welcomed her and they began talking. An hour and a half later, Mom looked at her watch. “Oh, my goodness, my daughter will be wondering where I am.” She talked to a total stranger for an hour and a half.

Mom loved her independence. She was married for 39 years then she was a widow for over 31 years. Until her stroke, she played bridge twice a week. She worked in the library on Fridays for many years, transcribing a lady’s diaries from around the turn of the 20^th century and then typing them into the computer. She was conscientious and corrected the mistakes that others made. She did water aerobics at the YMCA and loved to go to the beach at Hunting Island and walk along the shoreline. She was active in this church, where she took DISCIPLE, went to Sunday school, was a member of a women’s circle, and enjoyed Wednesday night suppers and programs. She loved the oyster roasts and other social gatherings.

Mom came to my house in New York or Pennsylvania for Christmas and in the summer almost every year. She drove in the winter until about 1993 when the snow trapped us together in a small parsonage for almost 7 weeks. One day there was a break in the weather. I hastened her out of the house so she could drive home. The snow closed in again quickly. She was forced to follow a snow plow off at an exit and take refuge in a motel for two days. Although she wasn’t happy about being stranded, that saved us from killing each other. After that, she flew and only stayed about a month.

Through her 87^th birthday, Mom drove the 700 to 850 miles to my house by herself every summer and stayed for three or four weeks. Many of her friends tried to get her to stop. She always told them, “God is right here in the front seat with me.” I was always proud of her independence and courage and encouraged her to drive as long as she felt she could.

In the spring of 2013, we went to Disney World and had a great time together. We rode the rides and saw the shows. We left the room at about 10 in the morning and often did not return until that time at night. We ate, laughed and had one of the best times we had ever had together.

In November 2013, she had a stroke that left her with aphasia and slower cognitive processes. She worked hard at physical and speech therapy and became much better. The therapists loved her because she would work at anything they suggested. Her smile and positive attitude made her many friends. After her rehab, I brought her home to live with me in Pennsylvania. She continued with therapy in Clearfield and brought joy to the therapists who came to the house. They enjoyed having someone who looked forward to therapy and gave it her all.  I retired in June 2015 and brought her home to Beaufort. Even here, she continued therapy, always trying to get stronger and speak more clearly.

She loved the water. She loved to ride out to the beach just to watch the waves and smell the salt air. We would ride out to Brickyard Point and Pigeon Point, where Mom and Dad used to put out their boat. She would tell me about times they went out on their boat. She had loved fishing and crabbing, even picking crabs to freeze. She had missed doing all those things since Dad had died.

Although she sometimes got discouraged, she generally took this new life in stride. Her faith in God never wavered. Hers was a deep, simple faith that enabled her to raise a son who would die at 21 and a daughter with whom she often did not see eye to eye. She endured the death of her husband after just a few years of retirement and then her own increasing disability.

Most of you only knew her as an old lady. Some of you knew her as an active and faithful Christian and member of this church. I wanted you to know this woman, who lived through many hardships and challenges, but who always had a smile, a woman of great courage and perseverance, a woman of deep and abiding faith. I wanted you to know my mom, not always my friend, but always my hero.

The last week was difficult as I waited with Mom through her last days.  Here are my reflections.

ROOM 312

When it’s my time, I’d like to go to bed and not wake up in the morning or be hit by a car or even electrocuted while changing a light bulb. Anything quick. I suppose that’s what we all want. We don’t always get what we want.

Now I sit in Room 312 waiting for Mom to finish dying. Even though she is almost 92 and had a stroke three years ago, which left her with aphasia and slower reasoning skills, she has enjoyed life. She has adjusted to reduced mobility, not being independent, and more recently, needing oxygen all the time. Wednesday and Thursday, she was noticeably weaker and fell several times. I had to call the fire department to have them lift her into bed.

Friday, Mom was in screaming pain and running a fever. This time they took her to the hospital. By afternoon, I knew she had pneumonia, with a lot of fluid around the lungs, but no broken bones. The doctors were trying to find the source of 102° fever. They admitted her at 4 o’clock, but it was after six before they moved her upstairs to Room 312. She was in and out of consciousness, but she knew who I was and where she was. It was 8 o’clock before I left the hospital and drove home.

I knew this episode was serious. The doctors and nurses all told me so. Even if they hadn’t, I knew. Mom was not going home – at least not to our home on Wade Hampton Drive

The next day, I returned. Mom was making no sense most of the time. When I held her hand and spoke to her, she recognized me. “I love you,” I said. “Love you, too,” she replied, then returned to her delusions. Later that morning, Tom and Kay stopped by to visit. Mom was incoherent. But when they took her hand and spoke her name, she opened her eyes, looked at them, and smiled. They told her their names, then Mom looked at Kay and asked “How’s your knee?”

Mom hadn’t seen Kay in months, the last time being Christmas day at church. I mentioned to her in January that Kay was having knee replacement, but hadn’t said anything more about it for two months. I wasn’t even sure she knew who Kay was. And then, “How’s your knee?” Those were her last words of lucidity. They expressed her familiar care and concern for others. Then her words returned to jumbled, unconnected phrases, alternating with cries of pain.

I knew she would not be leaving Room 312 alive, even before the doctor came in. He told me she had two different kinds of bacteria in her blood. They could continue to treat the infection with antibiotics, as they had been, or stop them, IV fluids, and all other treatments. Rather than trying to heal her, we could change the plan to comfort care.

I had known what I would say before he asked. I would follow Mom’s wishes and what I thought the kindest. Mom had signed a Power of Attorney in 1986, one year after dad died; a health care power of attorney, a DNR, and a Desire for Natural Death Directive in 1992; and prepaid her funeral in 2002. Several times over the last six months, as her strength weakened and her ability to do things had decreased, Mom told me to put her out in the backyard or let her die. She was tired, she was ready.

A few times on Friday and Saturday, she uttered the word, “Home.” She had said that before, when we were home. Sometime she meant her chair in the living room, other times she meant her bedroom. I had asked her from time to time if she meant heaven and she looked at me with incredulity. “No,” she said. Yet when she said it in the hospital, I hoped that was what she meant.

From that time on, they used Dilaudid and Ativan to keep her calm and pain-free. She would cry out in pain when they moved her and occasionally if the medicine wore off, otherwise she slept. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday were long days of waiting, made bearable by a continual influx of friends from my church at Waters Edge. I told stories about Mom. We laughed and sighed.

In the times I sat there alone, I thought how ironic life can be. Mom lived in over a dozen places, walked beaches and malls, trekked to and from schools, sang, danced, and drove around the eastern half of the country. She loved being on the move. After her stroke, she came to Pennsylvania to live with me, then back to Beaufort after I retired. I took her to restaurants and the beach. She enjoyed going for rides, if only to get out of the house for a while. We even took refuge in Charlotte for a week after Hurricane Matthew.

But after we returned from Charlotte, she didn’t seem to care about going out anymore. Her life became more limited. At home, she went from bedroom to bathroom to living room and back – about 30 feet. Now she lay without moving in a hospital bed in Room 312, about 12’ x 15’ in size. Here, she would die. Here, her journey would end. And begin again.

As I sat there, I imagined we were waiting in a train station. Waiting, as corny as it seemed, for the train to glory. For three days, I waited for the train, so I could see her off. I knew it was coming and wondered why it was delayed. Mom wasn’t concerned. Her breaths were deep and regular, although slightly more labored. Her face showed she had no worries except for the occasional spasm of pain.

I fretted. In my mind, I walked down the track, trying to see around the bend. Why wasn’t Jesus coming for her? Her work was done. What else did she need to do? Where was the train?

I left at about five on Tuesday. Through the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, I was going to dine that evening at three of Beaufort’s best restaurants. I met new people and enjoyed casual conversation around an appetizer called gnudi (don’t ask), drunken shrimp, and white chocolate cheesecake with blueberry and caramel sauces. It was the first evening in three years that I had been able to be out having fun without worrying about getting home to take care of Mom.

The phone rang at seven in the morning. The nurse told me Mom had died about 20 minutes earlier. I dressed and drove to the hospital. Mom’s chest was motionless, her arms and face still warm. The lines on her face had been erased. A look of peace gazed silently at me. She was not there. She was gone.

As I stroked her arm, I told her about my evening. I told her how good the food was. I told her I would miss her, but I hoped she was with Dad and John. As I sat there, I wondered if the train had come several times over the last three days, but she had refused to get on. She knew I was looking forward to that dinner night. She wanted me to enjoy myself. When the train came by again on Wednesday morning, Mom knew I was safe at home. She left station in Room 312, and, welcomed by Jesus, got on the train. At last she was on her way home.

      OMAR BRADLEY, A LITTLE RED CAR AND ME

          Let’s circle around the Lincoln Memorial one more time.  If we still can’t find a parking place, we can head across the Memorial Bridge to Arlington.”

The year was 1981. The date was April 14, a Tuesday. For us three seminarians, this week was a welcome break. It was reading week, a time to prepare for final exams and write papers. That day, we were not in the mood to read or write.  My best friend Pat, her fiancé John, and I decided to take advantage of this day full of spring.  Winter had been long and snowy and cold.  The green blades of grass had only recently reappeared after four months of brown camouflage and periods of being AWOL.

We were looking for a change of pace, a little fun, a last escape before finals and graduation.  As usual, I was hoping for an adventure.

The plan was to drive from our seminary in Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. for a day trip.  After a little discussion, we decided I would drive. I always wanted to drive if the trip was of any distance, because I knew that a speed limit of 55 really meant 62.  Piling into my 1974 red Hornet Hatchback, we set out.

About three hours later, we entered the Capitol city.  Our itinerary was to include brief forays into the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, an encounter with Abe Lincoln at his memorial and a reconnoitering of specific graves at Arlington National Cemetery.

With no success at finding a parking place at the Lincoln Memorial, (In 1981 people could still park all around it.  Terrorism and hordes of tourists had not yet shut down convenient access to the Capitol, the White House and all the major memorials.) we parked by the Supreme Court, wandered through the halls of justice, then meandered through the Library of Congress.  I wished I had all those books for myself.

So, there we were, circling the Lincoln Memorial for the third time. “Okay, let’s head across the bridge to Arlington.”

We came around the bend and onto the bridge access. As we drove across, we couldn’t help but notice that either side of the bridge was lined with clean cut young soldiers dressed in crisp khakis.  A few ties rippled like flags in the breeze.

I said, “I wonder what’s going on.  They must be practicing for something.” At that moment, we realized that both lines of uniforms had snapped to attention and were saluting us as we drove by in my 1974 red Hornet Hatchback.

We laughed as Pat said, “I wonder who they think we are.”

“Maybe this is the way they greet visitors to Arlington these days,” I answered.

John, an Army veteran from the late 60’s, just shook his head in amazement.

We crossed the bridge and drove through the gates of Arlington to begin our self-guided tour.  Suddenly, I jammed on my brakes.  A sergeant, with as many chevrons on his lower sleeve as on his upper sleeve, had stepped into the middle of the road.  I immediately noticed the rifle he held across his body.  It looked like a small tree branch compared with his 6’5”, 250+ pound body.  He could have played offensive tackle for any pro football team.

He came up to my window and, leaning over, peered in, carefully examining us. “What are you doing here?”

I thought the answer was rather obvious, but I didn’t want to rile him. “We’re just here to visit the cemetery.”

In a voice that seemed to rumble up from beneath the Potomac, the sergeant intoned in a brusque, inflectionless manner, “You can’t come into the cemetery today.  The cemetery is closed. Today is the funeral of General of the Army Omar Bradley.  Please turn your vehicle around and exit now.”

He really didn’t have to say please.  The polite formality of his response was a bit incongruent with the rifle he was holding.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” I stuttered, forgetting the important rule that you never insulted a non-commissioned officer by addressing him as “sir.”  Before he could point his rifle and shoot me for my breach of protocol, I turned the car around and drove out the driveway.

As we left, we needed to make a quick decision. We could either get on the congested multi-lane interstate to who knew where or we could go back across the bridge into the center of the city and see some other sites.

We opted for the latter. Until we came over the crest of the bridge. We realized immediately that we were in the only vehicle along Constitution Avenue for as far as we could see.  Getting off that street as quickly as possible seemed to be the prudent thing to do.

However, we immediately realized that wasn’t going to be an easy task.  Both sides of the street were now lined with military personnel standing shoulder to shoulder, extending across each intersection in front of the sawhorses used to keep anyone from entering.

Somehow, when the authorities had closed off access to the route of the funeral procession, they had missed us.  We were trapped.

I slowed to about 15 miles per hour as we tried to figure out a way to extricate ourselves.  It had quickly dawned on us that with the cemetery behind us and no escape in sight, we were driving inexorably toward that very procession.  It wouldn’t be too long until the caissons went rolling along right into my front fender.

Just as panic was beginning to set in, I heard a disembodied voice coming from alongside my car.  I looked to my left and found myself staring at a knee length, highly polished black boot.

I stopped, leaned out the window and looked up—way up—into the face of a mounted Washington, D.C. police officer.  I felt an instant of relief.  Someone had sent the Calvary to rescue us.

Channeling John Wayne, he asked, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

To which I replied, “We’re trying to get off this street.  It’s General of the Army Omar Bradley’s funeral.”

As if an echo, the voice stated, “This is General of the Army Omar Bradley’s funeral.  You have to get off this street immediately.’

Before I could ask him to assist us in that cause, he rode off into the sunset or horse barn or movie set.

The three of us now were moving into panic mode.  We had driven past the Army contingency, the Marines, and the Navy, each of who, in turn, had stood at attention and saluted. Not too far in the distance, we could see the headlight of the cars preceding the horse drawn cart with the casket of General Bradley. I swore I could hear the mournful wailing of bagpipes, for his funeral or ours, I wasn’t certain.

In a surreal moment of insight, I was struck by the way in which individuals respond to a crisis in different ways.

John, who was sitting up front, had a quiet, rather serious demeanor most of the time.  He spoke up, unintentionally giving a good imitation of Pooh’s friend Eeyore, “They’re going to recommission me, court-martial me and send me to Leavenworth.  In a low, almost chant like fashion, he began repeating, “I’m going to Leavenworth. I’m going to Leavenworth.”

For Pat, on the other hand, speech came easily, with clarity and conviction.  However, when she was overwhelmed, she lost the ability to construct a coherent sentence. As she sat in the back seat, leaning forward with her head in the front seat between John and me, she began to babble.  All that came out was, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”—like a vinyl record skipping on a scratch.

Me? I see pictures in my mind.  The picture I saw at that moment was of Walter Cronkite delivering the evening news. “Today, in Washington, D.C., the funeral of General of the Army Omar Bradley, was disrupted by three seminarians who were quickly taken into custody. They were unarmed and driving a 1974 red Hornet Hatchback. The reason for this protest is unknown at this time.  Stay tuned to this CBS station for details as they develop.”

The ludicrousness of the situation hit me like a pie in the face.  I realized I was draped over the steering wheel laughing hysterically, accompanied by the refrains of my two friends, as I continued to inch my way toward the inevitable confrontation.

I swatted the image of doom out of my consciousness.  I was a mature, level-headed thirty-year-old woman in my eighth year of higher education. I could handle this.  Since no one had recognized me as a damsel in distress and rescued me, I had to do it myself.  I had to take action. NOW.

We were driving through a saluting cadre from the Air Force, decked out in their blue uniforms.  If I had figured correctly, the only service we had not yet confused was the Coast Guard.  We were getting closer to our own D-Day.

Deciding that retreat was the only option, I prepared to turn around in the middle of Constitution Avenue.  To give myself enough room, I edged over as close to the right side of the street as possible.

As I maneuvered the car into position and began to execute the turn, I had a close-up view of worried young faces. Although the dutifully continued to stand motionless and salute the inhabitants of this car with the mysterious mission, they were all surreptitiously looking down at their feet to see how close I was to their toes.

I spun the wheel as hard to the left as I could.  Inspired by the bravery and courage of these military units surrounding us, I made a precision perfect K-turn and reversed our direction.

Quickly, but with all the decorum I could muster, we began the trip back up the street toward the bridge.  Maybe our observers thought we were taking the point on this funeral procession and making certain that all was in readiness to honor the general.

Here we came again, approaching the Memorial Bridge. As we drove up and over, the army contingent again stood at attention and saluted us. However, I noticed in the rear view mirror, that every head turned as we passed for the third and absolutely final time in order to follow that mighty 1974 red Hornet Hatchback until we were out of sight.

One last decision remained.  If we continued straight ahead, we would again be confronted by the giant sergeant with the rifle.  We had no doubt that if we dared to enter those gates again, he would shoot us.

That certainty led us to the only other option. I turned to the ramp to the interstate, only to realize our egress was being blocked by yet another barricade. Sensing our distress, the man guarding the sawhorse moved it out of the way.  We felt like Moses and the Jewish people at the parting of the Red Sea. Without looking back, we drove onto the interstate, effecting our escape from arrest, imprisonment and possible execution as traitors.

We all exhaled at once as danger faded away behind us.  “where to now?” I asked my cohorts in mayhem.

Pat pointed to the exit sign and I knew we had been sent here by divine guidance. We laughed as we pulled into the parking lot in that faithful 1974 red Hornet Hatchback and entered the building.

With confidence and a wondrous sense of irony and in Omar Bradley’s honor, we took the tour of the Pentagon.

THE BULLY

          “Hurry up, Fatty.”

I was walking as fast as I could, but the board was narrow and I didn’t want to fall off into the water.  Then he would really laugh.

“HE” was a sixth grader, tall and rough. Only seven, I was afraid of him.  Every time he saw me, which was sometimes several times a day, he would call me names. “Fatty” and “Tubby” were his favorites.

He pushed me to the side of the path after we were both across. “Get out of my way, Chubby,” he growled.

The school was new and there were no sidewalks yet.  Where the ground dipped low, the school had placed planks to allow the students to walk over the water that flowed through after every rain.

I hated rain because I hated to walk across those boards.  Even if he were not there, I was afraid I would lose my balance.  When he was nearby, I was terrified.

That afternoon it rained again.  I prayed that we would get out before the sixth graders so I could get across and almost home before he came out of the building.

Mrs. Extrand, my teacher, dismissed the class.  The sun was shining and I was looking forward to playing outside after I got home. I glanced around as I left the building.  The coast was clear. I saw no sign of him.

As I was crossing the second board, I heard that voice. “Come on, Fatso.  Get out of the way.  I’ve got things to do.”

I tried to hurry, but I was too nervous.  He was still yelling and teasing me as I stepped off the board.  I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I stopped and turned.  With my bravest second grade voice, I shouted at him. “Stop it. Leave me alone!”

He laughed and kept coming toward me.  In frustration, I put out my arms and pushed him in the chest. “I said, ‘Stop it!’”

My actions took him by surprise.  All of a sudden, there he was, soaking wet and lying in the ditch. I just stood there.  I couldn’t believe what I had done.

The roar that arose from the water roused me from my stupor.  Fearing for my life, I ran as fast as I could.  I didn’t know what he would do and I didn’t want to know.

I heard him screaming as I opened the door, ran inside and shut it quickly.  At least I would live until tomorrow.

The next day, I looked carefully so I could run if I saw him. I didn’t see him that day or the next.  He never bothered me again.

A few weeks later, I skipped across the board.