The Paddlewheel

About ten years ago, when I was in seminary, my parents-in-law came to visit us.  We lived in Dubuque, Iowa, not known for much except being the 'Jewel of the Mississippi' and a riverboat casino or two nestled in the port area.  Dubuque is settled at the confluence of three states: Iowa, Wisconsin and Illinois - all of which are regularly passed over by travelers flying through the air.  During Robert and Judith's trip, we did what tourists do...

We went on the paddleboat.

A paddleboat is an amazing piece of engineering.  Ensconced in the stern of the boat is a large wooden wheel which, when idle, looks a lot like a hamster exercise apparatus, but when in motion, it thwump thumps as the steam engine turns the wheel propelling the large, ungainly ship forward.  The day we boarded was a beautiful early autumn afternoon, or at least that's what my recollection is.  The Spirit, the steamboat on which we would cruise up and down the river, glistened like a white diamond in the Port of Dubuque.  One could almost feel the vibration of the steamer as it lay tethered to the port like a stallion ready to break from the gates.

We paid our money for the boarding pass to a bemused salesperson enjoying the accents floating in front of her glass window and headed down the walkway ticket in hand.  The Spirit rocked slightly in the waves and as we boarded, there was a sense of entering a piece of living history.  Certainly, if anyone wanted to get anywhere fast, one would not choose the Spirit.  We were not in the mood to go fast only to take a gander at one of the world's biggest rivers.  With 29 locks and dams on the 2,320 miles (or 3,784 kilometers), a full length cruise of the river would take weeks, but ours sounded suspiciously like a famous comedic television show... "For a three hour tour.  A three hour tour."

There was no Gilligan, no actress, millionaires or professors (as far as I know), only a dozen or so slow adventurers walking quickly to the front of the boat to prepare for the launch. 

As we pushed off from the dock, the steamboat made its gradual way into the current.  Flowing north to south, the Mississippi is so large it doesn't even appear as if it's moving.  At it's widest point, near Lake Winnibigoshish in Minnesota - almost eleven miles across - the Mississippi is seemingly just one large mosquito factory, but near Dubuque on the southern side of Lock and Dam number 11, the River is about two miles wide (3.2 kilometers).  Two bridges span the Mississippi here carrying automobiles from Iowa to both Wisconsin and Illinois.

The Spirit began its way upstream northward toward the lock.  Moving slowly, we tried to see new things, but the paddle steamer is not really a stallion, more of a thirty-year-old sway back horse with bunions.  The girls were excited to feel the wind on their face; my in-laws were enjoying the river, but I wanted to see the wheel.  I mean, that's what differentiates a steamboat from an outboard, right?  So, I went to the stern, aft, if you will, as if I were any kind of mariner at all, and stood in touching distance of the paddle.  It's noisy - really noisy - the water sloshing between the slats, the engine echoing and rumbling beneath the water.  If I looked at the water long enough, it seemed as if the water was just turning in the same place; it appeared as if it were a treadmill.  It was only when I looked backwards that I could tell we were moving at all.  It was then that I could see that indeed time was rolling on and where I used to be is no longer where I am.

That paddlewheel reminds me of the time we just spent with my parents.  Just before the school holidays, my mother and father, Victor and Diane of Rake, Iowa (about three and a half hours from Dubuque) flew across the Pacific Ocean to visit us here in Australia.  As we were growing up, it would have been inconceivable for me to think that my parents in their mid 60's would ever travel the world, much less fly on an airplane for 27 hours.  The farthest we traveled when we were younger was Disney World (a requisite for most families, I think) which turned into a two week affair of camping in the hottest sun in the world which, back then, seemed like one of Dante's circles in the inferno, but now seems to be a place where a lot of laughter resides.

So they arrived at Brisbane International Airport bags in hand and bags under the eyes.  They were very excited to see our daughters as they haven't seen them for over three years except on the two dimensions of a Skype filled computer screen.  I think they knew that our girls would be taller, but I think they were surprised how much they had changed.  When we left the United States, they were little girls and now they were very much the title of Louisa May Alcott's book - Little Women.  Taking their bags from their hands, Greta and Josephine led them out the door to our car in the parking lot.  The warm sun that greeted Mom and Dad seemed to be a fine change from the frigid winter that had frozen their limbs for four months.  As we drove down the highway to the Gold Coast where we would be vacationing on the beach for a few days, I snuck glances at them, trying to see if they had changed physically.  For the most part, kids always remember their parents as they were when they were younger, or at least I do, or they remember their parents at the age they currently are.  It seems like yesterday that my dad had a full head of blond hair and my mother's dark brown hair had no streaks of gray in it. 

In three years they had not changed that much: my dad has a little less hair than I do but the smile that pushes his cheeks up is still there.  Although there are creases around their eyes, crows feet where there used to be soft skin, they have the appearance of church elders now rather than young parents trying to drag their pre-teens to worship on a Sunday morning. 

They look wise and yet they sound the same.  They arose early in the mornings struggling desperately with jetlag.  Like a tug o' war competition, they were losing against the Sandman.  But there were benefits to getting up before dawn.  Making their cups of instant coffee, they would sit out on the veranda overlooking the ocean waiting for Helios to pull the sun up over the Pacific Ocean - in the east.  My parents had difficulties turning their minds to the fact that the Pacific is the east coast. 

As the first rays penetrated the ripples of the ocean, you can almost hear the earth sigh with wonder at God's magnificent idea of dawn.  They sipped and slurped, chatted in low voices trying not to wake the rest of us, watching a sight they rarely get to see - the majesty of the ocean.  Dawn is a time of low voices rumbling in wonder, isn't it?

When I awoke one of those first mornings, I watched them from the inner recesses of the apartment unit.  It was quite apparent that they still enjoy time together, sharing moment of miracles that off pass the busy by.  I was proud of them.  That sounds weird, doesn't it? to be proud of your parents, but when you are young, it's far too easy to be wrapped in your own egotistical blanket to think how wonderful it is to have parents who care to spend time together, who are trying to teach you how to be a married adult.  They've been married almost forty-three years.  That baby boomer generation will be one of the last to experience the golden wedding anniversary, I think.  It's becoming extinct the more our current generation dismisses the concept of commitment.

After our time at the Gold Coast, we moved home to Gatton for a few days preparing for the physical part of their journey.  We traveled by car nine hours to Carnarvon Gorge where we would be camping for a few days. 

Well, camping and hiking.  We didn't mean to do it, but I think we almost killed them the first day of hiking.  As we started out in a light mist, waterpacks fastened to our backs and backpacks full of munchies, Mom and Dad were excited for the opportunity to hike.  Even though they struggled up the first hill (and later my mother would say that she didn't think she was going to make it to the end - or even survive it for that fact), their voices were flushed with joy to be outdoors.  After stopping at various photographic opportunities and making the U-turn at six miles, their voices became strangely silent; their backs a little hunched over and for some reason my mother kept taking off her shoes to rub her feet.

We all get older and even as I feel my own forty-one-year-old body not recover quite as quickly, I really don't know what it's like to be twenty-five years older.  I don't know what they feel but I could guess what they were thinking.

What in the world have we done?  We are six miles away from camp crossing slippery rocks and streams, wet shoes and feet?  I will be happy with just breathing by the time we are done.

But they didn't complain - they don't complain, really, ever.  Not once did they say, "Ooh, my back hurts," or "Can we please stop?  I think my spleen is about to splinter."  They just plodded along step after step, mile after mile and it was only when we looked back, that we could honestly see that we were moving.  Kind of like that paddlewheel.

That night, even in the midst of extreme exhaustion, which probably added to the hilarity of the moment, my parents laughed until they cried telling stories of yesteryear, when their own children were growing up.  It was dark.  I couldn't see well,  but it almost made a pseudo home movie generated only by the spoken voices of my parents.  All those memories passing swiftly in the river of time pushed back in swirly memories bubbling here and there.  I think this is what I relished most about their time with us.  All the memories shared in their own voices.

We spent a great two weeks together, but the day came too quickly; we looked up and saw that we had already made it to the end of this journey and I drove with them to the airport.  Their bags were packed, lighter than when they arrived, souvenirs placed in bags and on heads.  They were a little quieter unsure what the future would hold, as were we.  After pulling up to the curb at the airport, I unloaded their bags while they hugged the girls goodbye.  My mother kissed me on the cheek and told me that she loved me; my father hugged me - hard - or that's how I remember it now, slapping my back a few times like men do - and then we drove away.  It was that fast.

There are many traumatic moments in life that we always remember - the first time we stay overnight at someone else's house when we are children, shuffling through the fear of separation, sleeping little but enjoying the time.  The last time we stay at our parents' house as children - leaving for college with the bags full of stuff that we accumulated by our parents' goodwill.  The last time our parents' see me as an individual - on my wedding day - when I became someone else's. 

Then, when our parents leave.

It's traumatic when it feels as if they are not near.  Some parents leave slowly, holding on to their kids sometimes disrupting the flow into adulthood; some parents leave too soon or even suffer the incredible agony of leaving the memories behind when the worst of diseases, Alzheimer's hijacks the mind.  Parents leave when they pass on; there is a vacant space where the vortex of youth and adulthood converge. 

But the trauma remains.  The departure is difficult whether slow or fast, but to have them share their memories, even if they fade slowly into the present, is one of the greatest gifts given to any son or daughter.  When the paddlewheel slows down and it seemed that life stands still, reflect, if you can, on the gift that parents are.  Then, when they leave, you are left with the swirling, bubbling, visceral reminder that life is short, and time is forever.

Enjoy your parents and your kids.

Commiseration

Two weeks ago, after our morning worship service at school, I was helping reset our worship area back to classrooms.  As we have concertina sliding doors that slide from the walls to the middle in our creative arts block, they need to be locked into position so that noise is kept to a minimum and the doors don't swing creating distractions in the three classrooms. 

It had been a frustrating Friday morning already and my mind really wasn't on what I was doing, but as we were closing the last set of doors I began sliding them in the bent position toward the middle.  Unfortunately, the young boy on the other side of the door didn't see my fingers in the metal caps on the edges of the door and he pushed.

Whammo.  As I wasn't even aware until that moment that my fingers were in the crease, the pain was exquisite.  Think of the time when you were doing carpentry and you hit your finger instead.  Can you feel that?  Now, on that same finger, jam a toothpick under the nail as far as you can go...

That's what it felt like to lose the end of it.  I'm not sure how many nerve endings actually have their terminus in the tip of one's finger, but it must be in the billions.  I pulled my finger from the crack and unfortunately found that the tip of it was still in the doors, but I had to get out of there because, well, my stumpy finger was bleeding everywhere. 

People do strange things when they are in shock, I think.  My brain was overloaded with input, my nerve endings were shouting at me, "YOU IDIOT!"; my finger was throbbing already and leaking on my shirt and all that I could think of was...

Where's my bag?  I've got all my books in it.  I don't want to leave that behind. 

Weird, huh?  I wasn't concerned at that point about my tipless index finger, only the fact that I didn't want my school bag to go missing.  My friend Nikki, who is a teacher at Faith, noticed the gore and said, "Maybe you should go to the nurse."  She's smart like that. 

So I dragged myself across campus, satchel hung over my shoulder (I found it) and headed to the nurse's office like a hunchbacked Igor.  Some kids tried to stop me a few questions, but evangelism takes a back seat, I think, during amputations. 

Here I sound like a big baby, and this whole thing is really just a case of 'manpain', because as I write this (without using my left index finger) the skin has begun to grow back over the piece of my finger that was unceremoniously removed.  Eventually, it may not look any different than it used to but on that day, I felt the pain and that was just okay.

What I've found, though, over the last two weeks is that it really isn't a rarity for one to lose a section of one's finger.  In fact, almost every person I've met either has trimmed a digit or knows someone who has lost a section of their hand and they've told me about it.  Whether cases of hunting, carving, squishing, cutting - it doesn't matter - everyone has a story about 'I remember the day when my hand  used to look normal.'

Last Sunday I went to a different church way out in the middle of the country.  The first person to greet me extended his hand.  Sure enough, two finger swallowed by a story of pain.  When I tell people that I caught my finger in a door, they wince for a second, but in some ways, it would be a better story like my friend Skippy.  His real name is Nigel but no one calls him that  Skippy took off the top of his finger the night before his wedding, he found the piece, just like I did, but they put his back on.  He told the story with all the gruesome details and I felt like we new each other's pain.  Every person who has lost a finger is now part of the club - the Stump Club, I guess.  And whenever we get together, we commiserate in the pain of not having the same kind of grasping abilities as we used to.  That's what commiseration really is, isn't it?  Sharing a common story of pain.

I see it all the time, and unless you're part of the club, you can't really understand.  Women who have had children talk about their birthing experiences seemingly every single time they meet and usually, they, just like the boys, try to outdo each other with the painful bits.  They look at us over the bridges of their nose, disdainfully shaking their heads and roll their eyes.  Even a lady at the office, after seeing my finger misery said, "Try having a baby."

No thanks. 

You have to be part of the club to understand.  In order to be part of the healing process, you really have to be there.  So each person that shakes hands with me with parts missing, I can nod in some kind of conspiratorial manner, wink and say, "I'm part of the club too."

But the whole idea of commisery got me thinking the other day - We always talk about how God doesn't understand the pain that we go through, or at least we think about it, and sometimes we speak in platitudes about how God knows our pain because Jesus suffered on the cross, but that's the most difficult thing I struggle with sometimes:  I know that Christ suffered pain on the cross and God knows what it's like to lose life, but where is God in my suffering now?  Where is God in the pain of knowing that even trivial loss for me, like not being able to play guitar for a few months, is like losing a big part of my joyful life.

Fortunately, I think it's this very fact that God sends people to commiserate with us, those that have suffered in similar ways, is how we heal quicker.  It's the reason we have Alcoholics Anonymous, cancer survivor groups, loss of a child groups - hundreds of gathering that occur everywhere for the purpose of commiseration.  Because when loss is shared by those who have gone through it before, new life is found. 

Shared grief equals common healing. 

I thank God for the people who have commiserated with me the last two weeks.  I know that I am not alone.

Maybe you could find someone with whom you share a common grief?  Maybe you'll find new life in commiseration.