Tracks

I am sitting in front of the train tracks in my car, thinking of all that's happened in the last week. I am on my way back to my dad's house from Don and Tana's, which has been a relieving distraction. It's after 12:30 am Saturday morning, and I am tired - mentally and emotionally drained - and a little resentful of this train that is keeping me from a much-needed appointment with bed and sleep.

Staring at the tracks, the wheels seem to go by in a patterned blur. Thankfully, the train is going by very fast, and I look up at the train itself to see the individual cars speeding past. Except that when I look from the track to the train, the train doesn't seem to be moving as quickly. The cars differ enough from each other that my eyes follow them better. My focus has shifted.

It is late, and I am in a contemplative mood. So I begin to wonder about the metaphor I am witnessing here, letting my eyes shift from train to track, track to train, slow to fast, fast to slow. I think about this week, and my own radical shift in focus. I think about all the plans I had before the fire, and how they have all changed.

I look again at the track, and I think of how I had seen my life laid out with all my desires for the future and my plans to make them come true. I see the wheels as my daily routine, my comfortable, familiar routine of actions and behaviors that kept me speeding along.

Then I move my eyes and switch my focus. I see the cars carrying the full weight of my daily routine. I see them one by one, passing slower yet somehow at the same speed. I am able to count them. I can see the different colors, the shapes, the graffiti, even the empty trailers. I notice each car for itself, wondering at its purpose.

My life feels like it has been derailed now. I have no routine. My plans have changed. There is no pattern. I have been forced to refocus, to live moment-by-moment and wonder at its purpose, noticing things I could never see before and caring about things that seemed mundane or irrelevant before.

All my plans have burned away, and I am becoming thankful for each day as it happens.

Beauty From Ashes...

It is an arresting sight - the charred, icy rubble spread out around the skeleton of my former home. Everyone who walks or drives by has no choice but to stare, transfixed, at a building that used to house 16 families but is now condemned and will soon be scheduled for demolition. I park as close as possible but avoid my old carport spot, now littered with pine cones, needles, clumps of mud and other debris. I grab the disposable camera and hurriedly duck under the yellow tape, snapping pictures almost immediately. The light is fading, and I don't want to get kicked out before I finish.

Of course, I am most interested in seeing what I can of my old condo unit, and the same temptation to ignore the rules, risk my safety and climb the stairs grips me as it did earlier in the day . . .

[Earlier.] I am standing on a pile of burnt wood, broken glass, and God knows what else, just inside what's left of the doors to my section of building B. I am at the foot of the stairs I had climbed so often before. The walls are black in most places, and the handrail has gone from gray to rust. The stairs are charred and crumbling. It is cold and the wind is blowing flakes of ash down into my hair and onto my clothes, like a flurry of dirty snow.

I am standing in a place I took for granted as just being there, now grateful simply for my aunt's life. Except for the clothes I was wearing Monday and the items in my car, everything I used to call mine is gone. Up in smoke. This is funny in its morbidly humorous way, and I am also grateful for the ability to smile. My aunt and I have been given an uncomprehensible peace and a sense of humor almost immediately. We have lost track of how many different variations of, "I know you wanted to _____, but you didn't have to torch the place," we have told each other.

My aunt was standing behind me, talking to neighbors who are also waiting to see what's salvagable of their past, but she has gone back to the clubhouse where it's warm. I am waiting, grateful but anxious. Despite being told several times there is absolutely nothing left, I know that what I really want has survived. It had to. And while I appreciate these men risking their safety to look around on my behalf (they won't let me up), I know no one cares like I do. I am tempted to rush up the stairs and look for myself. So I am surprised by my surprise when the association president comes gingerly down the steps to hand me my first meager handful of what's left in my old desk. It is just a pack of colored pencils and cheap art supplies, but it is mine. More gratefulness, especially when another neighbor offers a black garbage bag to put my armful in.

We all laugh when he carries down a muffin pan which has braved the fire - probably because it was wasting away stored in a closet! It is our memento that not everything we had was useful to us, a reminder to us in the future that all the things we could own may not be worth owning.

A few more minutes, and another careful trip down the stairs. This time, he's got more of what I'm looking for - a photo album and a few loose photos. I keep repeating my thanks. He asks if there's anything more, as the bottom drawer of my desk is blocked by a bunch of debris and it will take a bit of work to access it. I say yes, knowing the contents of that drawer and praying it's made it through as well as the other things. And ten long minutes later, when he's holding my grandmother and great-grandmother's photo albums out to me, I can't help but get teary-eyed. I can't thank them enough, and I tell them so. The albums are sopping wet, and I hope they're not damaged beyond repair, but just holding them in my arms means so much.

So now, all that's left of the belongings in my home is in a garbage bag. It's heavy, and I struggle to carry it to the clubhouse, but I am excited to see the look on my aunt's face when she sees its contents. I feel vindicated for insisting on trying to find it, but also very humbled that God has shown us this favor. When my aunt casually asks what's in the bag (flashback: Dorothy asking the Wizard, "I don't suppose you've got anything in that black bag for me"), I am happy to see her eyes also tear up when I pull out the albums and we discover together that the photos inside have survived.

I am still struggling to let go of my stuff, reminding myself that even photos aren't eternal, that in the end even they don't matter. I am still struggling to learn to be bold in asking for help without guilt or shame. I am still struggling with adjusting to living in someone else's space, abiding by their routines and rules, reminding myself of my Savior who had "no place to lay his head." I can share this with Him - all of it, even the anger and frustration - and He will continue to give me His peace.

And that is beautiful.

A Year Ago Today...

A year ago today, Paul Carl Kirsch passed away as he had lived - gently, quietly - in his little home along Lake Erie on the outskirts of Cleveland. My great uncle Paul, proud World War II veteran, traveler, gentleman, avid reader, art and history aficionado, and lover of Christmas. After several chronic illnesses in the last few years, prostate cancer and spinal stenosis to name a couple, he died from respiratory failure while lying in a hospital bed in his former living room, surrounded by just some of the hundreds, most likely thousands, of books he had collected in his 88 years.

I wish I could say I got my love of learning and literature from him. I wish I could say that his genuine appreciation of art had translated into my small talent in design. But we were not blood relations, my mom and her twin sister having been adopted by his sister and brother-in-law.

I do know I can say he made Christmas more special whenever I had the chance to see him around the holidays. I know I want to develop his same keen interest in so many subjects, to become the fascinating and well-rounded individual he was. And I know the world needs more gentlemen of his caliber.

I miss Uncle Paul. I regret I did not make the time to see him more often. I regret I never finished the letter I started to write him because I know he would have loved it. I regret I never really let him know how much I admired him and enjoyed him. Thankfully, I know I will be reunited with him eventually, in whatever form heaven really is, and we will worship the God we both loved on this side.

So here, for the seaman he was when he served our country and for the lover of literature he remained until his death a year ago today...

Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
- Lord Alfred Tennyson