Toast to my daughter and son-in-law

Ever since I was a little kid, my favorite musical has been The Music Man. One of my favorite songs from that musical is a song called Being In Love in which Marian Paroo describes the kind of man she would eventually like to marry.  At one point in the song she says:

I would like him to be more interested in me than he is in himself,
And more interested in us than he is in me.

A couple of weeks ago I was up in Boston delivering some furniture, boxes, and wedding gifts to Lauren and Jake’s new apartment, and we went out to dinner.  It seemed as if something was on Jake’s mind, and finally he described a situation at work with which he was struggling a little.  As I listened to what he was saying, I was suddenly aware that I was not a participant in this conversation; I was merely a spectator, because Jake was speaking directly to Lauren.  He wasn’t seeking her approval or advice, but he was seeking her counsel.  He was seeking the kind of counsel a soul mate would provide.  They communicated easily back and forth, talking about what had happened, what he had said, what was to come, what he might say in the future, and so forth.

Reflecting upon this later, the song from The Music Man suddenly popped into my head, and I realized that I had just witnessed what Marian Paroo was talking about.  Here were two people who were more interested in each other than they were in themselves and more interested in them than they were in each other.

You know, we are swept up for a moment by a wedding, but we are sustained and fulfilled for a lifetime by a marriage.  Please help me toast the love between Jake and Lauren as exemplified not only by their wedding, but even more important by their marriage. 

Letting Go

I was the only one in the dining room for an early-morning breakfast. Aimed for Boston, I was about to embark on the second day of my trip north to deliver my daughter’s car and a trailer full of furniture, boxes, and wedding gifts to her and her fiancé. After taking my order, the waitress ambled over to chat. 

“Where are you headed?”

“Boston. I am delivering my daughter’s car and some furniture to her and her fiancé before they get married in a couple of weeks.” I was suddenly struck by a stark reality—I was moving her out and turning her over to someone else. Not only was she leaving our house, she was leaving her childhood. And, in doing so, I hoped she wasn’t leaving us behind. The waitress seemed to sense my apprehension.

“So, your little girl is growing up, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. She is marrying a wonderful guy, so we are blessed.” 

“Honey, I do know one thing—sometimes you just have to let them go to hang on to them. I have an idea they will never be far from you, maybe in miles, but not in spirit.” Winking warmly, she disappeared into the kitchen.

As I started to rumble down the highway, thinking about what the waitress had said, my phone rang.

“Hi, Daddy. Are you doing ok? I understand that the weather isn’t great where you are, so I was checking up on you. We can’t wait to see you.”

Assuring her that I was fine, I chatted with her briefly before hanging up. Sometimes you have to let them go to hang on to them rang in my ears as I continued on my journey.

The Gift of Seeing Gifts

When I was thirteen, I had the good fortune of joining my grandfather on a trip to a camp in Maine to fish through the ice. Because of adverse weather conditions, we were not able to do much fishing, but the trip was memorable because my grandfather gave me a gift I had not anticipated—one that gave me a point of view that I had not considered.

During the six-hour drive north, Gramp filled me in on what we would be doing, where we were going, and what my chores would be. He also talked a great deal about a retired guide who would be staying with us at the camp—a man named Harley Fitch. A good friend, Harley had been my grandfather’s friend for years. Gramp also mentioned, however, that one of the stops we would have to make on the way to camp was at an automotive dealership to pick up his snowmobile. My grandfather seemed a little annoyed by this because the machine had broken down while Harley was using it. Apparently Harley wasn’t much for maintaining things. Instead, he tended to use machines until they stopped; in this case the engine had run out of oil and the engine seized up. Gramp then launched into the “take care of your things and they will take care of you” lecture that I had heard several times before. When we arrived at camp, Harley came out to welcome us, and my grandfather greeted him warmly. Nothing was said about the snowmobile.

As the week progressed, it was clear the two men were great friends and enjoyed each other’s company. I had a wonderful week of listening to stories, learning how to fell a tree and how to properly cut, split, and stack the wood, and just being around two men who loved the outdoors and who had much to teach me.

As our week together was coming to a close, I overheard Harley apologize to my grandfather about the snowmobile. Anxiously looking to see how Gramp would react, I expected to hear the “take care of your things” lecture. But he didn’t do that. Instead, slapping Harley on the back, he said, “well, it happens sometimes, but it is as good as new now.” Turning toward me, his big smile filling the room, Gramp winked at me.

At the moment, it was suddenly clear what I was to learn from this. First, it is important to take care of and maintain your things, and I already knew that. Second, as important as that might be, it is even more important to take care of your friendships and your relationships. Not only had my grandfather taught me the power of forgiveness, but also he provided a different perspective on the situation. He was telling me that, despite Harley’s faults, he accepted those faults as part of who Harley was, and, instead of seeing his faults, he saw his gifts instead. And so, today I am grateful for the gift I was given long ago of choosing to see one’s gifts instead of seeing one’s faults.

Before the War - Veterans Day 2011

Leafing through the pages of the book, I finally stumble on the photograph for which I am looking.  The faded black and white print shows two men surfcasting for striped bass off of the outer beach at Nauset on Cape Cod.  I know the men.  They are my father and my grandfather.  Trudging down from my grandfather's camp through shallow dunes to the ocean's edge, they would cast every morning in search of breakfast.  A striper or two nearly always obliged.  Gazing at the grainy picture, I notice how simple and uncomplicated the day seems.  My father, hatless and casually dressed, is peering at his rod.  My grandfather, wearing his familiar cap and clad in wading boots, is just beginning to reel in.  They are stuck in time.  The wash of the surf, a bright sky, a soft breeze ... peaceful.  The caption at the bottom reveals that it is 1941.  

Hmm ... 1941.  My parents were probably engaged then, or close to it.  And then .... I freeze.  A realization chills me.  This picture was taken before my father was sent to the South Pacific to be the intelligence officer on two attack transports that would participate in Leyte Gulf, Peleilu, Lingayen Gulf, and Iwo Jima.  I am seeing my father as I never knew him—before he went to war … before a friend was shot and killed next to him as they stood together on the beach at Iwo Jima … before he came back changed … before the nightmares of being hit by kamikazes … before waking up screaming at night in a cold sweat.  I am staring at my father as I never saw him—young, unaffected, and at peace with his world.  My eyes well up as I think about the pain he would endure.  But here he is innocent—the man my mother married.  I cherish this picture.  

And so, today—Veterans Day—is a day to remember and to thank those who have served this country in the line of duty. My grandfather was a veteran of World War I, and, as mentioned previously, my father was a veteran of World War II. As has been my custom for the past twenty-six years, I am wearing my father’s business suit and dog tag in his honor; I am also wearing my grandfather’s pocket watch in his honor.

Today we do not glorify war, but we do remember—and thank—those who have sacrificed so much for the countries and causes in which they believed.  Furthermore we remember with gratitude and compassion the families and friends who have suffered because of war. Finally, on this day of remembrance, I will remember the father I never knew—the one in the picture, before the war.

A Display of Love

Honoring the passing of a long-time friend of the church and father of two children from my school, mourners overflowed the cathedral as every conceivable space was occupied. Several of my students, wearing their formal uniforms, were speckled throughout the congregation. Wending my way along the pews, I followed those who had paid their final respects, as we proceeded through the line. Exiting the church through a side door, we spilled out into the courtyard.

As I was just about to leave the area, I noticed five or six fifth-grade boys milling around by the fountain in the courtyard. Perplexed and unsettled, they seemed distracted, not knowing what to do. Suddenly turning to one another, they came together in a spontaneous group embrace. Arms around each other’s shoulders and heads together, they clung to one another, feeling deeply for their fatherless friend. One or two spoke quietly, but silence and holding on to one another seemed to be what was needed at that moment. Watching from afar, I did not want to intrude on such a private and moving demonstration of love and concern for their classmate. I was fortunate enough to be witnessing these boys at their best—respectful, compassionate, and supportive, not only for their friend but also for one another. It filled me with gratitude.

Wiping their eyes and loosening their grasp on the group, the boys let their arms slip to their sides, as the group dissolved and departed for the street. Pulling myself together, I followed their lead, heading for tomorrow.