Until We Come Again

The lights turned off, the window shades drawn, we took one last look around the yard before starting the car. The sky was threatening rain again but we’ll have to wait and see. Ma’s pebble birdhouses still dangled from the front yard oak, the bluebonnets seemed to have grown a foot since our arrival, and the red bird swooped in to say farewell. One lone “moo” called from the distance. It was time. The dirt road crunched beneath the tires on our way to the front gate, and with a heaviness to match the air I swung the gate closed behind us and secured the padlock – its “click” I labeled a semi-colon rather than a period. We look forward to coming back.

The main road was quiet this Sunday morning; I’d like to believe everyone was in church. Depositing our accumulated trash, we pressed toward San Antonio, pausing in Floresville long enough to pick up some barbecue to go. I’ve learned that it pays, around airports, to travel prepared, and south Texas barbecue is almost enough to wish for long delays. Entering San Antonio we located the Guenther House, our predetermined lunch stop (food is becoming an unveiled consistent theme), but finding it overcrowded we ordered our chicken green enchiladas to go, pushed on to the airport and ate our lunch in the gate area. Travelers from all over the world tried to hide their envy. Lori peeled and cut up the last remaining mango and we feasted our dessert before subjecting ourselves to the grand inquisition known as “security screening.” Proof that there is a benevolent God, they didn’t even question our barbecue, only a knick-knack we had bought for a friend.

And now we pull out the books, plug in the iPods, steel ourselves for travel, and wait for the nod. These have been blessing days – the gentle embrace of rest and the braking deceleration of country life; the feathered caress of memories both decades old and months new; the nourishing grace of wildflowers, green leaves and open space, long walks in the pasture, and the animating chatter of birds. Blessing days, indeed. Waiting, now, at gate 35, the shift is so abrupt and complete, it’s hard to believe that Berclair is only short hours behind us…

…and, with good fortune, only short months ahead of us. In the meantime, I’ll keep praying for rain.

Memories in the Making

The day begins thick and heavy. Fog limits the view and dew, heavy enough to gather and drip occasionally from the roof, won’t likely be enough to moisten the fields but will at least service the wildflowers. In the few days we have been here, the roadsides and roughs have increasingly blued. They are crop enough…for the moment.

Yesterday smirked with the promise of rain, but like Lucy holding the football, the sky persistently reneged. We’ll see how today progresses. If the morning is any indication, it will be another stretch of daylight wet in spirit but dry in substance.

This is our last full day in Berclair for awhile. It’s too early to plan when the next one will be, but not too early to look forward to it. The 1500 miles or so between us make visiting hardly routine, but hopefully it won’t be another year. These days have been like wearing soft and comfortable old clothes that know where you bend and “give” where they need to. That very sentiment now strikes me as interesting. I’ve had something of an adulterous relationship with Berclair over the years – I’ve taken it for granted; disrespected it, I suppose, to dabble in “prettier,” “sexier” locales. After visiting here twice a year for the most formative years of my growing, when it was up to my own initiative I seldom took it. Maybe it was too close; too common; too hot when my vacation days were available. And, as I say, there were titillating alternatives. Now Berclair is, I suppose, the “sexy” alternative – far enough away to be alluring.

The result is that I have very old memories of these roads, these fields, these spirits that still gather on the front porches of my mind to laugh and tell stories, light firecrackers, spit watermelon seeds, hum a hymn or a folk song and page through photo albums; very old memories of honking the cows up to pet and tromping the fields and singing hymns in the old church. And I have very young memories from the last few years of reconnection and exploration and feckless striving to contribute something here instead of merely use; of in-troducing those old legacies to Lori and creating our own. But I remember almost nothing in between. Which, though odd in some ways and revealing much remedial I have still to learn, has some advantages, given some of the other turns those middle years ended up taking.

Meanwhile, we are here for one more day; smiling; gratefully relaxed; eagerly curious and attentive enough to notice the hawk swooping overhead and the buzzards circling in the distance and the cacophony of birds calling from the trees and the faint “moo” in the distance and the still, mirroring water in the tank across the pasture and the bluebonnets blooming and the coyotes howling and relative prospects of the dewy fog…

…and every redbird that drops down to perch on the fence…
…or the low branch…
…or the dusty rain gauge.

Gratefully, Wistfully Revisiting Friendships and Friends

I still remember the giant, talking papier mache raven we created in Eugene's garage in high school for a project on Edgar Allan Poe. And the "lunar landing" we filmed in another garage after draping all the usual garage detritus in white sheets, watching no doubt breathlessly as one of us -- in some kind of astronaut costume -- took one small step for mankind down the retractable attic stairs. I remember smuggling the fetal pig out of the biology classroom -- the better to study by for the dissection exam. And I remember marveling at the surviving snout suspended from Eugene's rearview mirror, continuing to grow hair. I remember the music we made, the tennis we played, the theology we debated, the school trips we took, the confidences we shared, the breakups we consoled, the successes we celebrated, and the futures we plotted. I remember the wedding tuxedos we donned for one another and the divorces a couple of us have lamented. And I remember the pain of saying goodbye when all of our high school days and summers were finally expended. David, Eugene, Sheryl, and me. Oh, there were others who drifted in and out. We each had our own peculiar networks and relations, fueled by church associations, special interests and, with Sheryl, gender. She was, after all, a girl, though we were too good of friends to notice. She'll never forgive us for that.

And suddenly it was over. After countless hours of life shared in the shallows as well as the deep, we went our four separate ways. Four different towns. Four different colleges. Four separate lives. It was a perfectly natural evolution. But I will never forget the ache of splintering those three from my soul.

We have been together since -- weddings, as I mentioned, and consoling their undoing. There have been reunions and occasional intersections. And while I can't speak for the other three who settled in relative proximity, it has seemed to me that since those halcyon years we have kept to our separate paths. I suppose it has happened with a certain inevitability -- we have, after all, established our own families, our own professions, our own directions. But we have been circumspect. With all the technology at our disposal, we rarely communicate. We are, to be sure, busy. Absence, as my Dad used to say, makes the heart grow fonder for someone else. But I can't help but wonder if we moths resist flying too close again to that friendship flame.

Whatever, seeing them again is always inexpressible joy -- as it was in late July when they all came to hear me preach when I was guesting in a nearby pulpit. Hopefully my sermon didn't damage their discipleship, because their presence deeply moved and filled me. It was only briefly, but seeing and embracing them, talking and catching up with them made me thankful all over again for the memories we hold in common, and the grace-filled holding we shared of each other's lives.

And it gave me new resolve to dust off their e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and calendars. Already I miss you David, Eugene, and Sheryl. And already I long to see you again...

...and look forward to it.

Drumbeats, Guitar Licks, and Tears

Reconnecting. Genuine Leather was the musical rage in the Hampton, Iowa class of 1977. The rock trio began playing together in junior high, and by high school had attracted a significant -- albeit local -- following. According to the mother of one of the band members, groupies -- mostly female classmates -- regularly crowded into their living room to hear the band practice. My wife happily admits to being among them. But that was a long time ago. Separate ways silenced the music -- the lead guitarist now lives in Omaha, the drummer in Kuwait, and the bassist in Minnesota. So when word circulated earlier this summer that the band would reunite for the 30-year class reunion, excitement began to build.

And tension. You could see it in the faces of the trio as the now middle-aged crowd began to gather and circulate in conversation last Saturday night. A couple of the band members confessed that they had been practicing for two solid days, and that they simply couldn't do some of the things they used to do. He didn't elaborate, although my imagination filled in the gaps with images of Elvis-like gyrations and guitar wrecking acrobatics. Before long the dinner had been consumed and the lights began to dim while the expectations brightened. Wearing matching Genuine Leather 2007 commemorative T-shirts ordered by one of the mothers, the band tended to one last perfunctory tuning, took a deep breath, looked prayerfully into each other's eyes, and...

...launched. Unh, unh, unh. Unh, unh, unh-unh; unh, unh, unh, unh-unh-unh. The heavy bass riff and thundering drums of "Smoke on the Water" drew an appreciative eruption from the crowd, an almost involuntary smile of satisfaction from the band members, and a happy flashback in everyone in the room. Suddenly, we all had more hair, fewer pounds, and stronger muscles. Suddenly, life was out in front of us, war was behind us, and retirement funds were still tomorrow's concern.

Four songs later, the concert was over and even the casual observer couldn't miss the relief in the band members eyes. They had done it -- successfully. They had remade the music and lived to tell about it. And the standing ovation and flickering lighters that miraculously appeared among the crowd merely punctuated and confirmed the assessment. It had been good, and they felt it.

But there was something else in their eyes. I suppose it could have been perspiration. They had, after all, been working muscles -- physical as well as musical -- that had long been out of shape. It's hard work being a "rocker." But I believe they were tears -- of relief, perhaps; of exhilaration, no doubt; but almost certainly of exuberant, awe-filled, and profoundly grateful and moving joy. Something intangible had transpired as their glances had signaled cues and their hands had traced familiar grooves and the cheers enveloped them in supportive embrace.

Standing together, arm-in-arm in their matching T-shirts for a closing photo-op, they smiled -- a kind of mystical countenance that the rest of us not so much noticed as shared. It was on our faces, as well. And, if the truth be told, in our eyes. For we were "perspiring" along with them. It's hard work, after all, reaching across all those years, reliving all those memories, renewing all those relationships, trying to remember the words, and singing -- almost, in a way, praying -- along.

Thanks for getting back together, guys. And thanks for the ride.