It was almost un-American. About 40 of us walked half a mile down a dirt path into an enclosure with small slits on the west, north and east sides.
Our instructions were clear: no talking, no noise of any kind, no light of any kind, no cell phones – smart or otherwise. Just silence as the daylight faded.
As the sun began to sink, turning the sky brilliant gold then raspberry, we began to see them. They were just silhouettes, black against the ebbing light.
At first they were just specks.
Then we could hear them. I loved the sound. To me, it sounded like a bird purr or throat rattle, a fluttery, sort of kar-r-r-o-o-o – in varying pitches and volumes.
Then they began to glide down onto the Platte River sandbars -- ten, then twenty, then hundreds. Then hundreds upon hundreds more – magnificent against the sunset.
We resisted the urge to applaud.
Awed, we realized that silence was the only appropriate response
March 8, 2015 was "Selma Sunday" -- the 50th anniversary of the long march to Montgomery, Alabama to secure voting rights for all Americans.
In Alabama and across the country people marched or had services commemorating what had happened and reminding all of us that there was a lot more to do.
We had such a service in our church, the Namaqua Unitarian Universalist Congregation in Loveland, Colorado. Loveland is mostly white and mostly conservative. The service featured a video of the Oscar-winning song, "Glory", and the eloquent acceptance speeches of its composers. There was another video of an interview with a minister who was attacked when James Reeb was attacked in 1965 and who had held Rev. Reeb's hand as he lost consciousness (never to regain it).
As a 'worship associate' I read a story about the song, "We Shall Overcome", and gave a short reflection, copied below.
There were a lot of good things about my dad. He was responsible, honest, hard working, and good looking.
He also had a derogatory term for every human being who was not a white Anglo-Saxon protestant, and able-bodied, and straight, and reasonably attractive.
His viewpoint was mirrored by the friends in my parents’ social circles, by the neighborhoods we lived in, by schools and crayons and ‘flesh-colored’ bandages. It was mirrored in derogatory songs and jokes and public entertainment.
That heritage was the bridge I had to cross.
It is a bridge most white Anglo-Saxon protestant people have to cross.
Slowly – very slowly – I began to acknowledge the value of people of other races. And my own complicity in their marginalization.
In 2002, I moved here from the most racially/religiously/ ethnically diverse neighborhood in Chicago.
Loveland was none of those. Or at least not that I could see.
We are so good at being oblivious.
In January 2003, I attended Loveland’s Martin Luther King Day celebration. It was okay … a little disappointing, but okay.
There was an essay contest for primary school kids. In 2004, I signed up to help judge the essays.
Obviously, some of the kids ‘got it’ … and some just mimicked the guidelines or quoted Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.
But it was a start.
With the exception of a couple of years, I have been involved with Loveland’s MLK committee ever since. And beginning last year, that committee has worked to bring Dr. King’s vision of a ‘Beloved Community’ into Loveland’s consciousness on a year-round basis.
It’s a bit of a challenge.
We’re so good at being oblivious to marginalized populations.
We simply do not see the people who are marginalized by language or culture or poverty or race.
But until we do, we will stay on the wrong side of the bridge.
And until we cross that bridge, nothing will change.
Eleven years ago, a band of rebels killed more than 120 civilians in a Ugandan refugee camp.
The International Criminal Court (ICC) in The Hague is preparing to try the rebels’ commander for war crimes and crimes against humanity.
But the survivors of the attack do not want him tried by the ICC.
Instead, they say he should be pardoned if he comes to Uganda to confess his crimes and seeks forgiveness in a ritual ceremony.
“From the victims’ perspectives… traditional justice and reconciliation would have been more appropriate than a trial in the Netherlands… They feel that an international trial is not going to change anything tangible.”
I picked up this information from a small article in my local paper (it must have been just the right size to fill a ‘hole’ in the page layout).
It made me think. I remembered the Truth and Reconciliation Commission set up by the South African government to deal with the atrocities of apartheid.
I looked up some United States statistics: more than two million people in prison; more than 3,000 persons are on death row. On average, prisoners wait eleven years between the time they are sentenced and the time they are executed. One man was on Florida’s death row for 39 years.
Wouldn’t it be more effective if we were to create our own Truth and Reconciliation Commission -- a system of confession and forgiveness that could change the course of lives instead of twisting or ending them?
When my sons were growing up, they had bedtime rituals that had to be faithfully observed.
My sons are grown now.
I have two cats, with bedtime rituals that must be faithfully observed.
When I go to bed I make sure I carry two cat toys with me. One is a long rainbow colored felt ribbon attached to a plastic wand. That’s for Herbie. The other is a slender plastic tube through which a cord is strung. The cord has a feather at one end and a small wooden bead at the other. Guinness prefers the bead.
Both cats wait outside the bathroom while I wash my face, brush my teeth and take the required pills.
They watch from the hall while I climb into bed.
They wait.
Then I start using the plastic tube to fling the bead across the top of my bed. Guinness springs into action and onto the bed, eyes wide and alert. He chases the bead and pounces. I never let him get it in one try. But he’s fast. In a few minutes he has captured the bead and, clamping the bead and string in his mouth, he jumps off the bed and hauls the bead/string/tube/feather out of the room, out into the hall, down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen and into the laundry room where it rests until I retrieve it the next morning.
Herbie watches all of this, waiting. When Guinness and the bead have disappeared, I dangle the rainbow ribbon over the edge of the bed. Herbie moves closer. He bats at the ribbon, sometimes even moving a little as he chases it. When he has had enough frivolity, he jumps up on the bed, ready to snuggle.
I turn off the light and Herbie moves up toward my head, gently moving me around until he is enthroned on one of the pillows. I shift to the second pillow and prepare for slumber knowing that sometime during the night, Guinness will return and settle somewhere around my knees.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. And sometimes that’s okay.
This week – the very last week in January – deep into the northern hemisphere’s winter – we had a gift of two balmy days (near 70 degrees Fahrenheit) plus several others with temperatures well above freezing.
For weeks and weeks my days have been crammed with things I had to do. Important things. Things I had promised to do. Places I had to go. Meetings I had to run or to attend. Reports or minutes I had to write.
I am supposed to be retired. But there was no leisure. Not that I noticed.
The first 70-degree day was filled, as usual, with obligations. The second 70-degree day was, after a brief morning appointment, completely open.
I live on the high plains only an hour from Rocky Mountain National Park. There were things I could have worked on but Rocky Mountain National Park is only an hour away.
I drove west, through one of Colorado’s most stunningly beautiful canyons, into the town just outside the park. There I had lunch in a restaurant near the river. The water surging beneath, and sometimes over, the ice was worth the trip.
But I was not yet in the park.
As I drove into the park I suddenly knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to sit in the sunshine on a rock in my favorite meadow. So I did – letting the rock and warmth and grasses and trees and the spectacular vista heal me.
Surrounded by growing and eroding things, my soul was restored. I drove slowly through the park and coasted home. Ready to resume my obligations.
Grateful for my winter break.
It had been a long day and I needed (or felt that I needed) a television break.
I now have three remotes to use if I wish to be electronically amused.
One, turns on the machine. That worked.
Another, connects to the satellite feed. That did not work.
Another, connects to DVDs. That might work.
The satellite feed remote had dead batteries – four AAA batteries.
Nothing in my battery drawer sufficed.
Therefore, if I was going to be electronically amused, I would need to find a DVD.
Long ago, during a PBS station pledge drive, I bought the documentary, “Pete Seeger, the Power of Song.”
I put that in.
And played it.
I don’t cry at movies or much of anything. That documentary brings me close to tears.
One person, one talent, one passion for justice -- for people, for the earth – the closest thing to a saint any of us will ever know.
Watching a documentary on Pete Seeger’s life is watching a template for what a life can be.
I am so grateful that I was out of AAA batteries.
I needed to be recharged.
I bought the book, This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, on the recommendation of friends . . . and because I knew Ann Pachett to be a fine writer . . . and because I thought it would be a full-length narrative describing the condition of its title.
When I discovered that, instead, it is a collection of personal essays reflecting various periods and conditions of the author’s life, I was annoyed. So annoyed, I actually stopped reading it.
[At base, I wanted to read a full-length narrative about a happy marriage because I had not had one and do not expect to have one but still kind of want one although I would never admit it publically.]
Then I got some kind of flu and the only method I could think of to get better was to get as much rest as possible and I had just finished another book and needed something to read so I would stay in bed and rest and maybe recover from whatever was making me feel so lousy.
So I finished Ann Pachett’s book. And I’m glad … although I still have a sore throat and some vertigo. It’s a good book. And there is, toward the end of the book, a chapter on her happy marriage. Somewhat heartening.
But it has been a good lesson for me, on many levels. Number One: Don’t abandon things just because they are different than your expectations.
It’s true of books . . . and probably true of marriages as well.
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