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Urban Quest Field Note #176: The opposite direction can make all the difference

I usually walk west on the path at the lake, but last Saturday, I walked in the opposite direction.

Heading around the curve adjacent to the softball fields, I spotted a duck (species unknown), that was flapping along the surface of the water, clearly snagged by something.  The angle of its approach showed the flashing of something gold attached to its right wing – foot.  It attempted to free itself, flapping about as it headed directly towards me.  Eventually, it found its way into the brush and rested still for a moment.  Looking down on it, I couldn’t see what had it ensnared.  Three or four others had gathered by that point, offering conjectures about the issue at hand. The animal was clearly in distress and needing help.

Soon it flew up on the path right at our feet.  At that point, the fish hook and line were apparent.  “Does anyone have a pocket knife,” I asked aloud, thinking this would at least decrease the tension of the line and the risk of further entanglement.  Almost as soon as I said this, one of the men squatted down to take a closer look.  The duck remained quiet and still as he gently placed his hand on her back to keep her still. He then reached back to dislodge the 3-prong fish hook attached to her right foot.  The removal drew bright red blood oozing onto her orange webbed coverings. She didn’t move, allowing this rescue to unfold.  He was careful to hold the hook tightly so as to avoid getting snagged himself.   She sensed the release and limped off. I tracked her for a moment, but she seemed like she would be just fine without further assistance.

As part of the clean-up, another fellow rescuer pulled and pulled at the fishing line, gathering what seemed to be an endless supply from a hidden spool beneath the surface of the water. I climbed down closer to the water’s edge to see if I could see the spool to pull it out.  Naturally, the fishing tackle debris needed to be removed so another water being would not meet a worse fate.  Finally, the invisible spool gave way to the last length of line.

In just those few moments, it was an inspiring feeling to be a part of a rescue mission for a helpless being in clear need of assistance. We all seemed to know and do our part in the sharing of the task.  One man commented to me, “I’m so glad you spotted her.”  I smiled.  Reminded me of my days as a lifeguard.

Urban Quest Field Note #174: The river as compass

The Chowan River, April 2017

Life is a ceremony within itself.                                                    Anonymous

Mom died on Tuesday morning, April 11th during Holy Week after suffering a severe stroke while taking a nap at home just two days prior.  Fortunately, Kingsley, my brother, was already on the ground in this familiar, rural community, the home place of our maternal grandparents, Lonie and Lester Harrell, and more recently, home since 1992 of our retired parents.  Kingsley spent the last two nights with Mom at her bedside in the hospital, before she died early in the morning.  She received comfort care those last two days she lived.  Only a few hours after Dad and King returned home after Mom died, the pressure to make decisions about the scheduling of the funeral was upon us.  There was little time to just be still and present with the space that had just been made in our lives by her departure.

It’s customary in this farming community to turn funerals around within a 2-4 day window.  It’s been like that since my grandparents time, even before, I’m sure.  A well-oiled communication machine is activated in this community as the news spreads through the prayer chain and the custom calls to and from the pastor and funeral director.   The home of the deceased is quickly transformed for the receiving of friends, family, and lots of potato salad…and chicken, desserts…of course.

When I arrived on Wednesday evening, the sign-in book on the small podium by the living room door clearly marked that this living space, this living place, was now being used for visits of a particular type…receiving story…reflecting aloud on memories and conversations…silences…remembrances of connections in the past…and, of course, the latest local tale.

It felt strangely comforting to arrive under the cover of darkness.  I had imagined falling into the arms of my Dad, but the driveway full of cars indicated my entrance would not be a private one.  Dad met me at the door, insisting I come in to meet all the people gathered.  It was jarring, and I felt a bit on display.  All I wanted to do was just hug my Dad.

The next morning (Maundy Thursday), I learned more detail about the ‘decorations’ that had been made to the sanctuary at Rocky Hock Baptist in preparation for the upcoming dramatic production of the life of Jesus.  This drama was scheduled to start on Good Friday eve. Kingsley had warned me that there was a life-size tomb complete with a hand-cranked door for a stone, positioned stage left.  We had decided the day before to have the service at the church instead of relocating to another space, given that most of the people who would be attending would be members from that community.  We figured they would be fine with the props in the sanctuary, tomb included, and well, we figured we could live with it, and felt like Mom could live with it too.  We also figured Mom would want the service to be there, the church she grew up in.  And so it was.

I went over to the church around lunch time to meet with the pastor in charge of the drama production as well as the organist.   I was able to see the space for myself.  Actually, I was pleasantly surprised.  I was struck by the beauty of the hand painted back drop of a river hanging over the stained glass windows behind the baptistry.

While I would have preferred the view of the windows with the beautiful light streaming through, there was the issue of the 300 gallons of warmed water in the baptistry that would have to be drained in order to remove the painted back drop.  The pastor said they could drain it, and I immediately said, “No way.  We’re not going to waste 300 gallons of water to do that.”  I felt complete peace with that call, and, the fact that the back drop was of a river…the Jordan, of course…well, it was just meant to be.

Mom often sat in a favorite chair at home by the bank of windows in the sun room looking out on the Chowan river. She was baptized in that river. She swam and fished in that river.  She had lived by that river for the last 25 years, watching it, witnessing its unfurling life.  In the last year or so before she died, she offered spontaneous reports at meal times on the conditions of the river, the birds she had seen and the weather she saw happening outside. These were always delightful moments to receive from her as she often was so quiet.  Even as the dementia progressed, I think the river played a central role in orienting her to place, to her home.  She knew where she was, that she was home when she was looking out on the river, and this was her last view.