We begin the service with a loud gong. Then, a trumpet in the balcony pierces the silence and a flugelhorn answers from the platform. The guitars kick in with the drums and we’re off and running.
One song down, the organist picks up America the Beautiful and the old vets come in from the back, carrying flags. Year by year they come on Memorial Sunday, each year a few less than the year before. One woman is in a wheel chair this time. I note that Brad is shepherding them in, still young and erect in his Navy dress uniform. They march forward and slowly place flags on the platform. Brad steps up and leads the pledge.
Later, the familiar bars of “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” lift from the organ and we repeat a tradition. Each verse is designated for a different branch of the military and those who have served in the past are invited to come forward.
The navy leads out on “whose arm doth still the restless wave.” Men begin to move down the aisles, some with vigor, and others moving very slowly. I see old Jack off to the left, cautiously making his way, hand over pew, hand over pew.
Next the Army and Marines come forward on “hill and plain.” There’s Roger coming from the back. His dad was an WWII army man who left his heart in Japan. After college in the US, he packed his wife and kids back to Japan for several decades where he helped rebuild the youth of a broken country. Roger, an army cook, also cooks a mean Japanese dinner.
When the air force hear “the eagles flight” several women join the group up front. Don and Dottie, who met in the air force, come in from the far right. Debbie slips out of the seat next to us, trim and young in her crisp uniform. Unlike most of the vets, she and Brad still fit in theirs.
On “danger’s hour” the police, firefighters, EMT and other local services are honored. By this time there are probably 50 men and women stretched across the front. The standing ovation lasts several minutes.
As they break ranks to head back, I see Brad take his father’s arm. Chet is 91 now, and Brad gently guides him back to his pew and delivers him to Irene. Brad slips into his space across the aisle where his kids greet him with glowing faces. Local hero, at least in pew 27.
John takes the platform and speaks of memorial stones from Joshua 4. “Why do we put up stones for memorials? Why do we bother to remember? Why do we need to look back as we move forward?”
He reminds us that the people in Joshua 4 who cross the Jordan and place stones for their children, are the children who crossed the Red Sea before they were twenty. Their parents forgot the significance of their past and didn’t get to move forward. They get another chance to choose for themselves. It is a choice to let the significant sacrifice of the past mold our future. We can chose to remember and set up stones.
Or we can let it go. Our choice. Our consequence.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Dragon and the Castle
Sunlight is picking out the gray stone on the face of the castle when we pull into the entrance drive. Through the years this castle has held a fascination. A childhood playground for me, a wedding venue for friends, a classroom for my mother and aunt picking up summer education credits.
Tonight it’s the Dragon’s turn to storm the castle.
This was the university she chose two years ago to pursue a Masters in English, and it has, for her, been an excellent choice. The gathering is the English grad students, each presenting a précis of their thesis. There’s much bustle as students and faculty, family and friends arrive and file into the ostentatiously ornate Rose Room off the main entrance.
Entering the castle for the first time is a step back into time. A huge staircase rises center stage to a second mezzanine, with yet another lofting above that. Deep mahogany paneling punctuates the vaulted ceiling high overhead and leaded glass windows glitter above the stairs out onto the back lawns.
Our guests are entranced. The older ladies have known this campus for decades, but also have not visited in many years. The young friend with us has never seen the campus, and particularly, never seen the castle. She’s ready to enroll -- except that she graduates next week with her own Masters so doesn’t need another degree right now.
The castle is the odd extravagance of a sugar baron plunked in suburban Philadelphia. Growing up down the street, I took the castle for granted. The legendary history was as common place as the red tiles of the carriage houses. Tonight I look at it anew and appreciate the beauty of the old building. Though the inside shows signs of the wear of academia, it still is a jewel.
The Dreamer, always building castles in her mind, would have loved to study here. The Driver might have found it a bit dramatic, but she too enjoys history. But to the Dragon, this was the place.
The Dragon’s thesis is stories from the past, history wound intricately with fiction, family legends laced with emotions that slowly catch your heart and take your breath away, ideas that are both a century old and somehow very much today. This is the right place for her to present her work.
Every castle needs a Dragon.
Tonight it’s the Dragon’s turn to storm the castle.
This was the university she chose two years ago to pursue a Masters in English, and it has, for her, been an excellent choice. The gathering is the English grad students, each presenting a précis of their thesis. There’s much bustle as students and faculty, family and friends arrive and file into the ostentatiously ornate Rose Room off the main entrance.
Entering the castle for the first time is a step back into time. A huge staircase rises center stage to a second mezzanine, with yet another lofting above that. Deep mahogany paneling punctuates the vaulted ceiling high overhead and leaded glass windows glitter above the stairs out onto the back lawns.
Our guests are entranced. The older ladies have known this campus for decades, but also have not visited in many years. The young friend with us has never seen the campus, and particularly, never seen the castle. She’s ready to enroll -- except that she graduates next week with her own Masters so doesn’t need another degree right now.
The castle is the odd extravagance of a sugar baron plunked in suburban Philadelphia. Growing up down the street, I took the castle for granted. The legendary history was as common place as the red tiles of the carriage houses. Tonight I look at it anew and appreciate the beauty of the old building. Though the inside shows signs of the wear of academia, it still is a jewel.
The Dreamer, always building castles in her mind, would have loved to study here. The Driver might have found it a bit dramatic, but she too enjoys history. But to the Dragon, this was the place.
The Dragon’s thesis is stories from the past, history wound intricately with fiction, family legends laced with emotions that slowly catch your heart and take your breath away, ideas that are both a century old and somehow very much today. This is the right place for her to present her work.
Every castle needs a Dragon.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Barrel diving
There’s an old myth that missionaries get their clothes out of missionary barrels. It’s only partly true. They’re not picky about the kind of barrel.
Years ago, I knew a woman who had a collection of things people actually sent to her when she was working in Appalachia. Used tea bags were just one item. Used soap chips, shirts with the buttons removed, ancient bathing suits. It was hilarious. She loved showing it to women’s groups.
Growing up, second hand clothes were one of the great adventures of life. A consignment store nearby had the best wool suits and coats in town for a fraction of the retail price. Then there were the clothes handed down from older girls. My mother could barely thread a needle but other mothers did magic on the sewing machine, and eventually I reaped the benefit.
Raising my own three daughters, only the eldest had much chance of getting brand new clothes. After that, it was second or third hand passed down the line. People also gave us bags of clothes and we had huge laughs over the contents.You never had to keep anything you didn’t like, but when you found something you did like, you hadn’t spent a dime.
In Hong Kong we perfected the art of barrel diving. Why shop the pricey downtown shops when there were huge cardboard boxes of export clothing crammed little back alley shops? Tape measures hung from the ceiling. Dive in, pull out a silk shirt, check for damage, assess the value, and shell out 50 cents. Maybe you wear it only once, but it was cheap. Maybe it becomes a favorite and lasts for years. The goal was to pay as little as possible and only take the most expensive brands and fabrics.
Today the Driver and I had a “barrel” of fun. At breakfast a friend said her sister or cousin had given her bags and bags of clothes, all too small for her. “Anybody want them?” she asked. We volunteered, dropped by after lunch, and brought home three large bags.
It’s probably been ten years since we last dove into bags of clothing together. There’s a system. You pull out everything and sort it by type and piles of yes, maybe, and NO WAY. Of course, as you do this, you make many, many comments about what you pull out of the bag. You offer various pieces to each other, sometimes in jest, and sometimes in great seriousness.
Then you assess the piles and begin to pick up pieces of clothing and decide if they are worth the effort to try on. About ¼ make the grade to the actual try-on stage. More comments follow. “Nah, no shape." “Hey, looks good.” “Nasty, nasty color on you.”
In the end, we each salvaged an assortment for absolutely zero outlay of funds. Good looking jackets, shirts, skirts, pants, and some soft wooly pullovers for next winter. We even put aside a little pile for The Dreamer post-pregnancy. The leftovers, two bags full, go to charity next week.
The best part was the camaraderie of knowing we got a deal. No retail shopping could be this much fun.
Years ago, I knew a woman who had a collection of things people actually sent to her when she was working in Appalachia. Used tea bags were just one item. Used soap chips, shirts with the buttons removed, ancient bathing suits. It was hilarious. She loved showing it to women’s groups.
Growing up, second hand clothes were one of the great adventures of life. A consignment store nearby had the best wool suits and coats in town for a fraction of the retail price. Then there were the clothes handed down from older girls. My mother could barely thread a needle but other mothers did magic on the sewing machine, and eventually I reaped the benefit.
Raising my own three daughters, only the eldest had much chance of getting brand new clothes. After that, it was second or third hand passed down the line. People also gave us bags of clothes and we had huge laughs over the contents.You never had to keep anything you didn’t like, but when you found something you did like, you hadn’t spent a dime.
In Hong Kong we perfected the art of barrel diving. Why shop the pricey downtown shops when there were huge cardboard boxes of export clothing crammed little back alley shops? Tape measures hung from the ceiling. Dive in, pull out a silk shirt, check for damage, assess the value, and shell out 50 cents. Maybe you wear it only once, but it was cheap. Maybe it becomes a favorite and lasts for years. The goal was to pay as little as possible and only take the most expensive brands and fabrics.
Today the Driver and I had a “barrel” of fun. At breakfast a friend said her sister or cousin had given her bags and bags of clothes, all too small for her. “Anybody want them?” she asked. We volunteered, dropped by after lunch, and brought home three large bags.
It’s probably been ten years since we last dove into bags of clothing together. There’s a system. You pull out everything and sort it by type and piles of yes, maybe, and NO WAY. Of course, as you do this, you make many, many comments about what you pull out of the bag. You offer various pieces to each other, sometimes in jest, and sometimes in great seriousness.
Then you assess the piles and begin to pick up pieces of clothing and decide if they are worth the effort to try on. About ¼ make the grade to the actual try-on stage. More comments follow. “Nah, no shape." “Hey, looks good.” “Nasty, nasty color on you.”
In the end, we each salvaged an assortment for absolutely zero outlay of funds. Good looking jackets, shirts, skirts, pants, and some soft wooly pullovers for next winter. We even put aside a little pile for The Dreamer post-pregnancy. The leftovers, two bags full, go to charity next week.
The best part was the camaraderie of knowing we got a deal. No retail shopping could be this much fun.
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