Читать книгу Falling Through the Ice - John D. Hiestand - Страница 6

I awoke contemplating the passing of an old friend; it was a disturbing way to start the day. I wondered if I might be under the illusion that his fate was in my hands—or maybe, it wasn’t. This was assuming, of course, that he wasn’t already gone, obliterated—or maybe, he was. The truth was I didn’t actually know if Alan was still around or not, and I realized if I chose to I could go on not knowing for quite some time. So the question that really disturbed me that morning wasn’t whether or not Alan was still alive, it was whether or not I wanted to know.

As I lay in bed trying unsuccessfully to sort things out, the sun rose in an unhurried fashion over Long Scraggy Peak. It lazily overflew the town of Buffalo Creek, then made its way upward, crossing over the North Fork of the South Platte River until it reached my bedroom windows with gold, piercing, high altitude light. On most days, my wife and I would simply draw the curtains closed and sleep in, proving we could be just as unhurried as the sun. But on this particular Wednesday morning we were too anxious to sleep in, I for reasons I suspect my wife Vivian did not share. So we rose, made our tea and coffee, and watched the squirrels and birds vie for the mountain of bird seed that we had poured into the feeder the night before. Days at our cabin near Bailey are often like this, except for the rising early part, and often no real activity begins until 10 or 11 a.m. Afternoon naps are required after a casual lunch, and by four o’clock we would look at each other in astonishment wondering how the day had gone by so quickly without us accomplishing anything. This was followed by that guilty/wonderful feeling that we really didn’t need to accomplish anything anyway: the earth was still turning and the squirrels were still hungry.

Vivian and I had been fortunate enough to get a couple of days rest at the cabin before we were obliged to attend the Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church in Denver, an hour or so away. This annual confab of Methodist clergy and laity in the Rocky Mountain Conference would culminate on Saturday evening with a large and formal ordination service, where new clergy would be officially ordained as Elders in the United Methodist Church. Vivian and I were two such new clergy, and some of our anxiety stemmed from the number of hoops we anticipated having to jump through before the big ceremony on Saturday. We had both served provisionally for two years as ministers and had managed all of the previous hoops successfully, but still . . . For this reason, Vivian was understandably anxious about the future, while I remained inexplicably anxious about the past.

The cabin in Bailey is our refuge. Even though it sits in a little subdivision, the lots are large and scattered amongst the conifer forests in a way that makes us feel isolated in the mountains, as if we were miles away from everywhere. The quiet seems intense when we first arrive, but it becomes soothing after a few days as our spirits realign to the natural world around us. Below us Deer Creek purrs softly on its way to the confluence with the North Fork of the South Platte, while crows and ravens, magpies and chickadees, hawks and even the occasional Golden Eagle circle overhead. It seems like the first real home I’ve had in years, since after leaving home at nineteen I had moved around frequently in California, Washington, Oregon and Colorado. It was ironic that we had at last found a place of rest and repose at the same time we were joining an organization famous for its itinerant clergy. So we clung to Bailey stubbornly even as we moved around the Rocky Mountains from church to church. No matter where we served, we felt we always had a place to come home to; a place where we could rest our minds, souls and bodies, and most often accomplish the sacred nothing.

On that Wednesday evening, after lunch and naps, Vivian realized we had nothing in the fridge for dinner, and would I pleeeeease drive down to Conifer and get something: chicken or steaks to barbeque would be good. Conifer was 20 minutes away, but it was the closest town with a grocery store, so I got in the car and snaked my way through the back roads until I arrived at Highway 285, where I turned north and headed into ‘town.’

I had barely pulled on to the highway when my cell phone rang and it was Vivian. A friend had called and suggested that they have an old-fashioned gals night out at the Cutthroat Café in Bailey and they couldn’t wait for me to get back with the groceries, and I wasn’t invited anyway ’cause I wasn’t a ‘gal,’ and so I should just get whatever I wanted and cook it up for myself when I got back ’cause they were going to be a while.

OK. Might as well continue on into town.

As I drove along the highway, my thoughts returned to the passing of my old friend Alan, which inevitably led me into a persistent journey metaphor. As I pulled into the parking lot of the Safeway, I thought aimlessly about how many times I had driven this route, actually and metaphorically. On the eve of ordination those drives seemed more than just a little symbolic of the shuttle my life had been on: back and forth between seeking the illusory security of income and career, and seeking deeper meaning in an increasingly vacuous world. Long drives produce odd musings.

Here inside the earthbent edge of heaven,

Within the span of endless sage and sky . . .

My thoughts wandered around until they were unexpectedly far away on Interstate-84 as I tried to piece together my actual and metaphorical journeys. It was a drive that I had taken numerous times between Colorado and the Northwest. Seattle to Colorado Springs, Denver to Portland, over and over again for the last eighteen years. I was conscious enough to realize that my anxiety about the past was related to those journeys, and were somehow tied in with my contemplation of Alan’s passing. Why else would they both be bubbling up to the surface now, in a Safeway parking lot? I parked at the far edge of the lot, as far away from the store as I could get, and tried to compose myself and settle my mind before attempting the arduous task of grocery shopping. I closed my eyes and continued to try and sort things out, hoping that the ghosts of journeys past would melt away in the afternoon sun. They did not.

Where clear-eyed dreamers toiled

We wait. Remembering.

It is possible to drive from Portland, Oregon to Denver, Colorado in two really, really long days; but most people who have their masochistic tendencies under control will usually drive the 1,600 miles in three long days to accomplish the journey and still arrive at least semi-conscious. It is also a trip that you want to take during daylight, since most of the time you are passing through some of the most scenic country on the earth. Even after having taken this trip dozens of times in my life, I am still in awe of the Columbia Gorge, the Snake River canyons and the Wasatch Mountains. So when my friend Alan called me from Portland and told me that he had found a job in Denver and could I help him drive out, I thought I might enjoy the trip.

I had lived near Portland for almost ten years, but in 2008 I threw my entire life into chaos by enrolling at the Iliff School of Theology in Denver, and my wife Vivian and I packed up or threw away everything we had and moved to Colorado in a twenty-four foot U-Haul. We had previously lived from 1995 to 1999 in Colorado Springs, but had relocated to Oregon to care for Vivian’s aging parents. So in moving back to Colorado not only did we change states, again, but I was walking away from a well-compensated career as a computer programmer to become a low-paid pastor in the United Methodist Church. Alan had remained in Oregon and continued his work in high-tech with a job at one of Oregon’s famous Silicon Forest companies. Like most of my friends and colleagues, he could not understand why I would make such a radical move, as well as shoot myself in the foot financially, and assumed I would eventually drop out of seminary and come to my senses, return to programming, and retire in the ease and comfort he thought I had earned after 25 years in the computer industry. By June of 2013 I was still shooting myself in the foot and stubbornly remaining in Colorado, and I had arrived at a considerable turning point in my pastoral career: ordination was only a week away.

I assumed Alan got the job in Denver simply for normal financial reasons, but had cooked up the idea of this road trip as a last ditch opportunity to talk me out of my foolishness. One of the reasons I decided to help him drive from Portland to Denver was I thought I ought to let him try. I knew from long experience that I often didn’t recognize my own foolishness, and if I couldn’t withstand a grilling from the ever-forthright Alan I had no business changing careers.

So one evening in early June I found myself aboard Alaska Airline’s 6:35 flight to Portland. After a few hours, the ancient 737 swooped down the Columbia River gorge, flew west past the Portland airport, made a big, loping circle over Washington County, then lined up on the runway lights west to east and landed smoothly on the damp tarmac of runway 10R. I disembarked through a Jetway into Portland’s modern, spacious airport, retrieved my luggage and took the shuttle bus to the rental car lot. Alan was the ultimate city dweller and didn’t own a car, but had arranged for us to drive the rental all the way to Denver. It was a mid-sized Ford and fairly comfortable, with more than enough room for two guys travelling light. I pulled out of the lot and wound my way out to the freeway. I had taken this route many times when we lived in Portland, which was fortunate considering all the turnoffs and unmarked freeway interchanges that you needed to take in order to get into downtown Portland. It was dark and rainy—not surprisingly—and I couldn’t imagine how someone unfamiliar with the peculiarities of Portland driving could have ever found their way into the city. If they were smart I suppose they took a cab or the light rail, but Alan had gone to some trouble to arrange a long distance rental: our home for the next three days.

As I wound over the river and skirted the city in order to go through the tunnel and over to the west side, I wondered again why Alan had gone to so much trouble. His new company had hired movers to get all of his stuff to Denver, and he could simply have flown there himself, taken a cab and moved right in to his new apartment. We had for a time been fairly close, but had experienced the normal drifting apart over the last 5 years since Vivian and I had moved back to Colorado. Was he really so disturbed by the thought of me changing careers and life-direction that he wanted to do some weird kind of intervention, trapped together for three days in a rental car? Did he think I would be desperately unhappy as a pastor, yet somehow fulfilled if I returned to computer programming? Like me, Alan had come into computer programming in the “cowboy” days, when the industry was inventing itself and it was exciting and challenging to go to work every day. But those days had ended when the dot-com bubble burst in the early 2000s, and computer programming became less of a vocation and more of a job. I knew Alan felt the same way about this, but he had decided that relative financial security was more important at our age than fulfillment, while I had decided to limp along financially in search of deeper meaning in day to day life. I also knew that Alan had given up on organized religion a long time ago, regarding it as too shallow and unrewarding and irrelevant to modern times. My problem was that I wasn’t certain he was wrong. I needed to be certain.

So there I was on the brink of ordination, 1,600 miles from home and likely to be grilled for three days on the purpose of my life. Would my defenses and arguments stand up? And I was anxious and uncertain about ordination itself. Would this be a defining moment in my life, on the same list with my wedding and the birth of my children, or would it simply be the last of a long series of hoops I needed to jump through in order to be accepted into the clergy club? It might have been easier if I had just ignored all of this and let the whole thing play out unchallenged, but I knew that if I was truly seeking something ephemeral I could not back away from my own doubts and fears.

I turned south off of highway 26 on to 217, then got off the freeway and wound my way through the maze of streets that constituted the Raleigh Hills neighborhood of Portland, finally arriving at Alan’s apartment building. In Portland, cars are considered to be a little bit like a malodorous smell, so it took me almost twenty minutes to find a parking place three blocks away. I grabbed my overnight bag and hoofed it up the street in the rain, finally arriving cold and wet like a stray dog at the door of Alan’s apartment. I rang the bell while wondering why there wasn’t a larger stoop and overhang in a city where it rained all the time, but Alan came promptly to my rescue and ushered me into the apartment.

His apartment was impeccably neat, a talent I had never been able to acquire, though it did have the advantage of being almost entirely devoid of furniture. There was a cot and a chair in the living room, and I could see a few cups in the dish drainer in the kitchen, but the rest was apparently in a moving van on its way to Denver. Alan stood there in the middle of the floor beaming.

“You have a distinctive knock, my friend, but you smell like a rotten fish!”

“And it’s good to see you, too! I don’t suppose you have a towel?”

Alan went to the kitchen and found a 4”x4” face cloth, which he held out for my inspection.

“Great . . . ”

It was good to see my old friend again. We were about the same age and approximately the same height and build, but he seemed much healthier than I—I really needed to work out more—and his red hair and neatly trimmed beard gave him a distinctive look. He had also acquired the knack of looking really natty in just about anything he was wearing, which on that night was a simple blue polo shirt and Dockers. My button-down and jeans had started out wrinkled in Denver, were not improved by the flight nor the rain, and actually did smell a little like a rotten fish.

He sat on the floor while I occupied the sole chair, and we talked for some time, catching up on life events and common acquaintances. The coffee maker and teapot were on the truck, so we just sipped water from paper cups. But after a while it was clear that both of us were wearying of the superficial conversation, and I finally broke the ice.

“Alan, it’s great to see you again, but . . . well, why am I here?”

“To drive with me to Denver, you knucklehead.”

“Yeah, I got that. But why didn’t you just fly out? Would have been a lot quicker and easier.”

His face became serious. “Look, I just wanted to have some time with you, OK? Probably our last time together as you fade away into the numinous realm.” He paused to gather his thoughts, then continued, “I used to think you were just like me, that we’d be buddies together and retire together, sit on the porch at the old folk’s home and be flatulent together. But something changed and you moved away from Oregon, and a good job with benefits and all. And I sense that you didn’t just move away physically; it’s like you hopped off the train we were on and jumped on another whose destination is unclear to me. So I need to know: am I a fool for staying on my train, or are you a fool for jumping on to another?”

“Well, that’s clear enough! But you know, neither one of us has to be a fool. There are lots of trains and lots of people. And change is inevitable. We can choose it or we can be victims of it, but it’s coming all the same. And it’s not as if I don’t wonder about the train I’ve boarded sometimes too. But it’s the fear of being a fool, rather than the actuality of doing the right thing even if it’s foolish, that produces doubt. The trick is learning to ride the train without fear.”

“Bravo! Well said. And I concede to you the intellectual argument. Life isn’t a zero-sum game, and being foolish isn’t our only choice. But . . . I am still wobbly on the emotional argument. Something feels wrong here and I can’t put my finger on it. There’s something . . . something that’s not about fools or choices, or even our control of it . . . whatever it is.”

We sat for a few moments in a mildly sad silence. I felt what he felt: that even if the intellectual equation added up, the math seemed a little off in the emotional equation. Alan asked the questions that I knew were going to be reiterated over and over again on our long drive. “Why organized religion? Why the Methodist church? I guess I don’t really know your life story that well—maybe there’s some family connection I don’t know about?”

My family history was actually pretty slim when it came to organized religion, but I gamely tried to play the two very weak cards I did have. “Well, I have a very distant uncle, Samuel Hiestand, who was a Bishop in the United Brethren Church back in the 1820s.”

“Wow!” Alan exclaimed sarcastically. “He must have been a huge influence on you! Did your mom tell you bedtime stories about ole Uncle Sam the Bishop? And what the heck is the United Brethren Church?”

“Ha-ha. No, I actually only found out about Uncle Sam the Bishop a few months ago, so no actual influence there. And the United Brethren were German speaking Methodists. Like ole Uncle Sam, many started out as Mennonites and for some reason joined with the United Brethren. They merged with the English speaking Methodist Church in 1968; that’s how we became the United Methodists.”

“Ah! I’ve always wondered . . . not!” He shook his head. “So that’s it?”

I pulled out my second, losing, card. “My mother’s paternal grandfather was named Arminius Clay Johnston.”

“My paternal grandfather was named Payne, and he was, but it didn’t make me a sadist.”

“Jeez, Alan! The Methodists were, and are, considered Arminians, followers of a sixteenth century Dutch reformer named Jacobus Arminius. He started out as a Calvinist—you’ve heard of John Calvin, right?—but he had a very hard time with some of Calvin’s doctrines, particularly those that limited Christ’s atonement. He also had a high theology of grace, considering it unlimited and universal because it springs from God’s redemption in Christ, not from human effort. This grace belongs to everyone, even you, Alan, whether they ask for it or deserve it or not.”

Alan looked a little stunned. “Well, I guess they did teach you a factoid or two in seminary. But even so, did your mom tell you bedtime stories of Grandpa Arminius and his beautiful wife, Grace?”

I was getting a little tired of this. Alan’s flippancy was annoying at the best of times, and it had already been a very long day. Nevertheless, Mom had never talked about Grandpa Arminius. I had only found out about him through Ancestry.com at about the same time I found out about ole Uncle Sam the Bishop. Neither had any influence on my life at all, and I don’t know why I had even brought them up.

“These factoids about the roots of Methodism are actually extremely relevant—in fact, they’re crucial to answer your questions—but for me they are much closer to the end of the story than the beginning. There’s a lot more you have to know before Jacobus Arminius is going to make any sense, and I really don’t want to get launched into all of that tonight. We have three whole days ahead of us for me to tell you about the things that actually did influence me long before I ever heard of Calvin, Dutch reformers and ole Uncle Sam the Bishop.”

“OK. I guess I’m asking too many questions anyway. But I have to say, I’m not sure what I’m more frightened of—finding the answers or not finding the answers.”

“Well,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “Let’s stop looking for them tonight. Nobody can think straight in the dark and in the rain.”

“OK,” Alan said abruptly, and he immediately rose and walked back to the bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “There’s a sleeping bag next to the window. Set your alarm for six o’clock, and we’ll be out by seven.”

The door to the bedroom closed behind him, and I assumed he would just be sleeping on the floor. I found the sleeping bag and spread it out on the cot, then removed my stinky clothes and put on a dry t-shirt and boxers from my overnight bag. I felt wistful and apprehensive, wondering if I was looking forward to being grilled for three days in Alan’s sarcastic fashion. But once I got situated onto the cot and closed my eyes, the long trip from Denver began seeping out of me, and the familiar Portland rain gently sang me into a deep and peaceful sleep.