Cylindrical Symmetry

I discovered a bulky grey egg on our beach over the week end, lying among the usual shell and twig debris washed ashore by Lake Michigan waves. Just lying there. With no mother bird in sight, certainly not fertile. A new natural jewel to treasure and ponder. At first we thought it belonged to the bald eagle we observed on the rock nearby. Too large Google informed. Certainly not the hooded merganser whose red headed mate’s whole body compared in size to the egg.  Much larger than the eggs we consume.

We settled on the swan with the information available. The swans who so comforted me in my grief, the swans who so gracefully swim, bobbing daily reminders of all that is glorious in God’s world. And now this huge marvelous egg reminding me of God’s consistency, God’s connections. For don’t we usually take eggs as just there? The egg shape as nothing unusual? Yet here was an egg that wasn’t common at all, stopping me in the sand, demanding I google information. Why? Perhaps the answer lies simply in my pausing to look. Not being passé enough to pass it by.

For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. Which of you fathers, if your son… asks for an egg will give him a scorpion? If you know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him! (Luke 11:10-13)

I give you the egg.

photo by Maralee Cook

POPPIES

Branches of November grey
tell me nothing
of six months past.
Tunneling through
Tear washed clouds
I find poppies.
Georgia O’Keefe poppies
swirled, blended, etched
with red hot crimson cries,
and blazing maize memory.
Like the violent stillness
of a sunset you loved.

God never answers the whys,
instead He paints our voids.


I ask again in April
How many sunsets are there
for me?
I walk the sand,
checking for shadows
to stroke my hand.
Pelicans gracing the wind current
outlined across purple stripes,
almost as an anchor.
They suddenly smash into
crystal calms of their life food.

God never answers the whys,
He wades through them, with us.

Again, in May
I remember.
Plunging into morning blackness
my life’s equilibrium tipped
into dead end darkness.
Silent sunrise scribbling
crayons of color
into my mind’s window,
with a calliope of songbirds.

Still. Like Poppies.

God’s a lot bigger
than why.

LETTERS FROM MY DAD: D DAY

My father arrived in England in late May of 1944. His actual participation in D Day was a cheerleader from the sidelines. Later in June he would begin his actual B 24 missions over Germany.  But his letter to my mother comes close to capturing the feelings of all our young Americans somewhere in England:

Tuesday, June 6, 1944

Darling…
    Today the word is Invasion! Our first hints came this morning as we began to hear it was D-Day, no one was quite sure until this noon. At about ten minutes to twelve the Commanding Officer of the Post and the Chaplin came into the mess hall. The C.O. told us then; that this was D-Day. He gave us all the news of it he had, about the landing and its air support. Then we stood at attention and observed a minute of silent prayer for the men doing the job. Then the Chaplain offered prayer. I can safely say that more than a few of these men had a tear in their eye. I know that I did, for this truly is the beginning of the end. This isn’t a time for rejoicing, not today. This is a day for prayer, for hard work, for a renewed effort to the hard task before us.
     In today we can gather new hope, new courage, because now the job has been started. Each day, each hour, moves us closer to victory…
…Time to say good night. Darling, I love you very much. Today brings new faith in a certain lovely song, “I’ll be Home for Christmas.”

Your own,

Arthur

LETTERS FROM MY DAD: LET’S GO FLYING!

(Postcard from 1944)

After Pearl Harbor, 1941, each draft aged young man faced a crucial decision: should I enlist or should I wait to be drafted or “called up.” My dad grew up in a farming community in the Midwest, he dreamed big dreams of flying into “the wild blue yonder.” He enlisted in the Army Air Corps to make sure he had that chance. Failing the eye test for pilots, he thought he was washed up, done with the skies, relegated to a clerk. But he qualified for crew and Mechanics School and his chances of flying returned. Listen to his boyish enthusiasm and total excitement as he writes to my mom about flying:

Laredo Army Air Field

Saturday, May 29, 1943

Darling…

Let’s go flying! The call board reads Run 1, Flight 1A, Time 10:30 A.M., Ship 105, Pilot Wilson, Gunner 267. It’s 9:30 A.M., and time to check out at the main desk to go harmonize our guns. Well, let’s go draw our ammunition now, 100 yellow and 62 green, load it in the cans and go draw our parachute and goggles. Now for a walk down to the plane with all that equipment. (I wish I could have taken a picture of this.) Mount the gun and receive directions from the pilot.

Well, here we taxing out to the runway. As we do this, I must turn my watch to the inside of my wrist, kiss my ring, and say a short prayer for a safe return. Here we are 1,500 feet up flying 120 miles per hour. There’s a signal, load the gun. Another signal, the target is along side and we blast away. We signal the pilot and he knows we have completed firing; he peels off and heads home.

Oh! Here we go up through the clouds, up 5,000 feet. What a beautiful sight we see now, once in a while a glimpse of the earth through the clouds, but otherwise you can only see the clouds above and below. Over there, look our ship is silhouetted on a cloud and the sun reflections make a rainbow.

Oh! Oh! Here we go down, 150, 160, 190, 200, 230, 250 miles an an hour. What a thrill as we level off for the landing. Time of landing 11:25 A.M. The plane settles to the runway and we unfasten our seat belts and get ready to get out as we taxi in. We unload and walk back to check in all our equipment. Now for a Coke and then let’s head for the mess hall.

Always,
Your husband.