Forgetting to Come Home

Ronnie was my first love. My earliest memory of him is of Ronnie standing by his mother and me standing by mine, while they visited over the low picket fence of my mother’s daisy bed. Ronnie and his family, from Colfax Iowa, were frequent guests at my parents resort on Lake Jefferson, near Cleveland, Minnesota.

You could say that we grew up together and apart. As small children we played in the sandbox, then as we grew older we would fish off of the dock on summer days. My parents insisted that it was Ronnie, then in sixth grade, who smashed the few watermelons growing in our lakeshore garden. (He later denied this.) In our early teens, I hung out in the fish house while he cleaned the family catch. We shared similar views on civil rights. Ronnie, however, was the first person to challenge my view of the death penalty.

The summer between our Junior and Senior year of High School, Ronnie began to return my affection. So it was, that on one June evening, we took off in a boat loaded with, rods, fishing tackle, and nets. We talked for hours and “yes” there was a kiss, but only one.  Night was rapidly approaching before we headed back towards home. Then on our way back, we missed a turn slipping into Swedes Bay. We lost half an hour there . . .  which was just enough time to stir our already anxious parents into doing something to find out what had happened to their children. We suspected trouble when we spotted a boat with a search light aiming in our direction. We knew we were in trouble when Ronnie’s dad called out our names.

Many times since, I’ve waited anxiously for the sound of a car in the driveway, or a door to open with the clear message that one who is late has made their way home. As a parent, I can well imagine the fears that had gone through the minds of our parents that June night when Ronnie and I, dawdled and got lost on the lake.  In our lostness, and yes, even in our dawdling, God searches for us. When we’ve over extended our time away, God comes to us wondering why it is we’ve stayed away so long. Are we lost or hurt? A call goes out to bring us back. Search lights scan the waters for signs of our return. God searches for us, in all our lost places, shining a light that we might find our way home. If you’ve been feeling a bit lost lately, perhaps it is because God is missing you, calling your name and just waiting for you to head home.

Becoming Free to be Compassionate

Ten years ago, the 35W bridge collapsed and fell into the Mississippi river during rush hour traffic on August 1, 2007. I rarely drove across the 35W Bridge into Minneapolis, but a wrong turn had sent me over the bridge a few days earlier. Thirteen people died. Many were critically injured. More than one hundred forty people were transported to hospitals by pickup truck, cars and ambulances. What I remember most were the number of people who immediately jumped into action. Before First Responders could get there, bystanders were diving into the river,  rescuing people trapped in their cars. They were just ordinary folks who happened to be there and knew they needed to help. That evening, no one worried about the political, ethnic or religious background of the injured or the rescuers.  All of that was immaterial.

Henri Nouwen said, “To die to our neighbors means to stop judging them, to stop evaluating them, and thus to become free to be compassionate. Compassion can never coexist with judgment because judgment creates the distance, the distinction, which prevents us from really being with the other. Often quite unconsciously we classify people as very good, good, neutral, bad, and very bad. These judgements influence deeply the thoughts, words, and actions. These self-created limits prevent us from being available to people and shrivel up our compassion.” Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Way of the Heart: The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers

I often get discouraged about  the enmity between  people  in today’s society over  race,  religious faith or  immigration status.  Ten years ago,  in that life or death moment after the bridge collapse, all  judgements were suspended.   What mattered was searching for survivors, breaking windows of submerged vehicles and pulling people from the river. What mattered was getting children on a school bus about to erupt in flames or tip into the river to safety.  What mattered was stabilizing an injury  and offering comfort. It was one of our finer moments as we collectively worked together in the midst of a tragic event – evidence that if we choose to, we can be that again.