LETTERS FROM DAD: CENSORS AND DETAILS

When my parents said their last good bye in early May of 1944, Dad’s letters changed. Gone were the details of daily life: what he was doing, the landscape of the countryside, the actual names of locales. More importantly, not only did the miles from home become more distant, his own emotions and feelings were much harder to gauge…except of course in his effusive over the top love for Mom. That he did continue to express.

“I guess I can tell you it’s raining this afternoon. It doesn’t bother me, only serves to bring you and I closer together. Let’s park beside the pond, listen to the rain and frogs. Sounds nice doesn’t it?” (5/7/44)

Just the day before one of the “permanent party” had smuggled out a letter for him, full of details…Grenier Field, Manchester, New Hampshire…plane is under repair…route has changed…didn’t go to Maine…I’ll see Iceland…But in that same letter he cautions Mom, “Don’t mention anything I have written to anyone except the folks. Don’t write any of it back to me. You will receive other letters, censored ones, from me about ten days after we leave here.”

“Somewhere in England” was all Mom knew. Now, over sixty years later, I am devouring details of Somewhere in England. Of course I would have loved to hear my dad’s version, but books and histories dense with descriptions and details from strategic planning to how airmen peed in their bomber fascinate me. The Mighty Eighth by Gerald Astor focused on eyewitness accounts. I kept saying, “I bet my dad did that. I wonder if he saw that.”

My copy of Masters of the Air by Donald L. Miller is full of post-ettes and underlining, much more complete and detailed than any college textbook I ever read and tried to remember. Now it’s not for an exam. It’s to know my dad.

“In air combat, the technical sergeant who manned the guns placed his head and shoulders inside the revolving dome…when not firing his guns, he stood behind the pilot, looking over his shoulders at the gauges, that monitored the health and functioning of four engines.” (Miller, p. 83) That’s my dad.

But because of my intense reading, I also have an image of the unbelievable, horrific stress, tension, and heartbreak of a bomber crew. In my dad’s last letter dated June 19, 1944, he writes “I haven’t worked at all today (their code for mission) Yet, my dear, it has been a hard day. Someday I can tell you all about it. Don’t worry because I am feeling in good health and as happy as possible.” Certainly bland words for what he faced every day; but now I know what is behind the words. No censor can cut up my dad’s story now.

PRAYER WAVES

Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them,

For the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

I tell you the truth,

anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a child

will never enter in.

Mark 10:14b

The image of Jesus and the children is a favorite of mine. Perhaps because I love children: embracing their spontaneity, their honesty, and their unconditional love. Perhaps because Jesus stipulated we need to hug His kingdom like a child with spontaneity, honesty, love. Lately however, the image radiates with prayerful new waves of deepening faith.

After we sit on Jesus knee, we are asked to pattern our lives after his. But like children, we can’t sit long. We need to get on with the doing, the being. And Jesus gets up with us, to hold our hand as we get on with the busyness of life. As Teresa of Avila says:

“Christ has no body now on earth but yours,
no hands but yours, no feet but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion is to look out to the world.

Yours are the feet with which Christ is to go about doing good.

Yours are the hands with which Christ is to bless all people now.”

Those radiating Jesus spheres are understandable, although not always easy to follow. Even more difficult is comprehending, let alone absorbing, God’s all encompassing love for us. Over a lifetime of prayer: childlike prayers, demanding prayers to fix, protesting prayers to undo, forgiving prayers to make better, finally, we come to a place of connecting to God in an actual loving relationship.

Early every morning, at least five days a week, I swim. In the summer it is in the glorious expanse of Lake Michigan; in the winter, at a local glass house pool.  Not swimming at all fast or in competition, just a consistent, even breast stroke. I would like to say it is for the exercise and it is. But more than that, it’s a prayerful encounter and embrace with God. Moving my arms through the water I am one with it and around it. God is the water. I am in a cavernous, contemplative prayer with Him. All else, the swimmers next to me, music from the pool’s speakers, playful summer waves splashing me, is blocked as I reverently dialogue with God. Often I hear answers, understand next steps. More often I just feel and touch: trusting completely God radiating within my next stroke, wrapping his love in and around me.

With thanks to Pastor Rick Dake and my Companions Class,

both at Clarkston United Methodist Church,

for encouragement and enlightenment while developing this writing

COMFORT YE

Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally
With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty.
We shall be a mighty kindness.
     -Rumi (version by Coleman Banks)

Our family is going through some extremely tough times right now: negative accusations with no substance, rumors running rampant like a runaway snowball packed with whispers of untruth. How can one continue to function? How does one respond when a hug seems inadequate? Add a hundred hugs, piles and pleas of personal, powerful prayers and a tremendous eloquence of support showering truth and wisdom.

Communication channels have been overwhelmed: Facebook, Twitter, email, phone calls and even snail mail delivering words of encouragement. Hundreds taking time from busy over extended lives to write letters of support. Teenagers and adults, so often at odds, united in positive support behind our family.

It does not dispense the deep dark hurt of wrongdoing, but like a shimmering sunrise after a dense January night it gives cause for hope.

Give me a sign of your goodness,
That my enemies may see it
and be put to shame.
For you, O Lord,
have helped me and comforted me.
     -Psalm 86:17

Our family has become part of a mighty kindness.

WHY SHEPHERDS?

Why Shepherds?
Grubby, grimy, nomadic
almost homeless
living with sheep.


Why a Hillside?
Shaky, steep, barren
almost inaccessible
hardly living.


Why a Manger?
Foul, fetid, tainted
animal clamor
desperate living.


Why a Star?
Glow, blaze, brilliance
given luminary
living radiance.


Why a Baby?
Sweet, cuddly, joy
surrounded sunbeam
living a new day.


Why such a Gift?
for all of the world
to behold and then
hold unto.

THE SUNDAY AFTER

And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory are being transformed into his likeness with ever increasing glory which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.

2 Corinthians 3:18

The last football game of the Big Ten season has always been The Game, the classic rivalry between my Michigan Wolverines and Ohio State. I love the tenseness, the pressure, the exhilaration which only comes from such a Game. This year we won after a seven year drought and my delighted excitement and enthusiasm spilled over onto Sunday.  My Pastor, Rick Dake of Clarkston United Methodist, http://www.clarkstonumc.org/even poked a little fun at the Wolverines in the congregation whose big smiles he observed from the pulpit. His message turned serious, however, when he started discussing “we and they.” Wolverines and Buckeyes, first service and evening service, church members and community members, haves and have nots, rich and poor. His scripture, Matthew 26:31-45, concerned the sheep and the goats and the Kingdom of God:

“…They also will answer,’ Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes, or sick or in prison and did not help you?’ He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’”

Matthew 25:44-45.

And the veil began to fall away ever so slightly. Pastor Rick was discussing holy relationships and trusting Jesus as our model who loved all the “theys” of the Biblical world, including, probably the Buckeyes.  The Game’s excitement faded as I remembered my Companions class from church seeking a need, looking for a way to connect in our community. Just beginning an afterschool Book Camp for first and second graders at a lower income apartment complex, we were all floundering: a little unsure, a little scared, until we sat one on one with children who just wanted to share the joy of story. Suddenly I heard their chatter, their delight and knew it was louder than all those Saturday cheers.

Later that Sunday we went back to church to hear Rev. Faith Fowler, senior pastor at Cass Community United Methodist Church http://casscommunityumc.org/ , an inner city church connecting in amazing ways with the community which surrounds it. She talked about Hannah in the Old Testament (1 Samuel1-2) and how she rose above her disappointment, the ridicule and disdain of others, to seek the Lord, to pray, to sing:

“There is no one holy like the Lord; there is no one beside you; there is no Rock like our God.”

1 Samuel 2:2

And I was struck again by how much I am learning from the young mother I am mentoring from Grace Centers of Hope http://www.gracecentersofhope.org/ in the inner city of Pontiac. She is teaching me about poverty, the horrors of drugs, the degradation of the foster care system; but more importantly she is modeling someone filled with hope, with faith, with determination to “break the cycle” for her own children. Someone singing. Because of this friendship I am beginning to understand prayerful empathy, not sympathy, for Hannah, and the Hannahs of Detroit and Pontiac.

But God was not done with my Sunday. I watched the Hallmark Special, “Have a Little Faith,” written by Mitch Albom. Albom parallels his adult relationship with a rabbi from his childhood and his growing involvement with a Detroit pastor restoring hope in a broken down church and the pastor's own broken life. I asked myself, “What makes this so powerful?” Because the relationships are authentic transformations, because God is present and acknowledged. I thought about three books I have read in the last few months, Half the Sky by Nicholas D. Kristof and SherylWuDunn, The Language of Flowers: A Novel by Vanessa Diffenbaugh and The Story of Beautiful Girl by Rachel Simon. Half the Sky is a well documented discussion of worldwide oppression of women. But it is not just the facts and figures which overwhelm, but the true stories, the interviews, the contacts, the authors participated in. The Language of Flowers: A Novel is about a foster child who has been in the system since birth and now is literally dumped on the street when she’s eighteen, outgrowing the system. How can Diffenbaugh write with such conviction? She is deeply involved with her own foster children. The Story of Beautiful Girl is about a mentally challenged girl and a deaf man who are caught in “The Snare” of a mental hospital in the late Sixties. How can Simon write with such passion? She has a mentally challenged sister.

I remember the murals we painted this summer at Grace Centers of Hope Daycare, murals to brighten the dingy brick wall which surrounds the playground, walling out sirens, city traffic, tall shabby apartment buildings. I remember especially the manger scene with Baby Jesus, tiny army waving, seeking a hand to grasp.

 “…the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child shall lead them."

Isaiah 11:6b

And I am overwhelmed once more with a God who sticks with us as we seek Holy Relationships, who lifts the veil from our own faces and lives, as we encounter, connect, and learn to love the others Jesus finds for us.

LETTERS FROM DAD AND MOM: BILOXI THANKSGIVING

We celebrated our Thanksgiving Sunday this year so we could all be together: traditional, family-oriented. The grandchildren talked easily about school, video games, friends. The men watched soccer, football, NASCAR. The women chatted about TV cooking shows and good books, while cleaning up the delicious remnants of turkey, dressing, fruit salad, green bean casserole. In 1943 my parents planned to be part of a similar family Thanksgiving scene, minus the television, video games and green bean casserole. Dad had completed his training at the Air Corps Technical School at Kessler Field in Mississippi, where Mom had joined him in July. His furlough was planned to begin Thanksgiving week, but the “good ole Army” changed its mind and they were left in Biloxi for another week.

Dad wrote to his parents in rural Michigan, “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving—my first one away from home. I have a pass from four thirty until seven thirty Friday morning. That will mean Eva and I can spend all day together. She already has the chicken for our dinner.”

Mom was quite excited about that chicken. She wrote to her in-laws, “I got acquainted with a lady with a car…this morning we went down real early to see about getting a chicken. There’s a place she knew of where you could buy them alive and then they dressed them while we wait. It was $1.55 for a 3 ½ pound one….I scrubbed and cleaned that chicken for a good hour so it ought to be clean. I’m going to stuff it (bought some fresh oysters too), have never done it before so am anxious to see what it will be like.”

Later she notes, “We surely stuffed ourselves,” and even describes the table set up in their one room tourist cabin, “Our table really looked nice even if we didn’t have a table cloth for it…We ate so much we stacked the dishes and took a nap…then we went downtown to a show.”

Certainly different than our Thanksgiving held over sixty years later, but maybe not so much, still an emphasis on good food, being together, and entertainment. Especially being together, sharing a small segment of their lives; finding a way to embrace the moment given, rather than the moment postponed.

Both Mom and Dad knew the furlough coming up would be Dad’s only chance to be home before going overseas. Mom wrote Dad talked about seeing his nephew and nieces, whether they would even “know me.” She quoted him, “Eva, I can’t tell you how much it means to be going home.” But for Thanksgiving they were together and that was enough.

LETTERS FROM MY DAD: MUSICAL ECHOES

A week ago one of my former students posted on Facebook a video of the choir he now directs singing, “How Can I Keep From Singing?” (Robert Lowery, 1860) It was utterly lovely. I glimpsed my student as a studious fifth grader of at least twenty years ago, now with a choir of his own. But an even stronger memory transposed me to the Old North Church in Boston where my granddaughter sang that same song with the show choir she toured with a few summers ago. The words ricocheted off the antique walls of the historic church with such resonating clarity, I shiver with the memory today: “Through all the tumult and the strife/I hear the music ringing; It finds an echo in my soul/How can I keep from singing?”

I’ve always marveled how music can instantly conjure a memory we didn’t even know we still held onto. We often drove straight through to Florida over Spring Break. In the early Eighties, our then teenagers brought tapes which blared constantly as we traveled the darkened I-75. Whenever I hear Journey’s “Open Arms” I am instantly in the packed van once again.

During World War II, my lovesick dad used music to connect him to home, to his wife, to family.  In the March, 1943, letter shown above he listed all the songs they would listen to together, “on the davenport, with the lights down low.” I can only imagine how quickly my mother drew a little closer to her sweetheart so many miles from home.

Each Christmas it happens to me, too, when the Christmas carols from everywhere (malls, radios, television, parties…) begin and I hear Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” I am immediately with my Dad. Continuing the March letter after the list, my dad says, “Then to top it all to have Bing Crosby sing, ‘White Christmas.’ I think that will stand out as our own favorite song…” In another letter from March, 1943, he writes, “Do you remember Bing singing? Well, that record was just played and I could see our little tree in our wonderful apartment, you and I and the couple of kids we acted like.”  How can I not keep from singing with my dad each Christmas?

There is another song, however, where I don’t need to hear the song, I just need to be in that place. My husband David was an incredible singer. His music did not stop when he died. It reverberates still with the choir he loved, with the granddaughter who inherited his voice. It echoes also in the Meadow at our home on Old Mission. Shortly after he died I stumbled to the Meadow in despair and I heard David’s voice as clear and distinct as it had always been, singing the song as he had so often with his church choir:

“Now Lord, I feel you near me,
I feel Your guiding pow’r.
And know You’re standing by me
Through ev’ry passing hour.
And Thy will be done, Lord,
They will be done.”
       (Joyce Eilers)

Indeed.

Thank you to David Bassin for posting the video and

Sharon Thomas, for finding needed lyrics