Last fall, I visited my daughter and son-in-law in Duluth. At the time, I had no idea I would soon buy a loft there and spend many mornings walking along Lake Superior and many afternoons cuddling my brand-new grandson.
That blustery November day, my son-in-law suggested we go down to the Lift Bridge to watch one of the big ships come in to port.
A Hit of Hope is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
My first reaction was much the same as when I considered visiting the Grand Canyon on my first solo trip to Arizona. It’s a hole in the ground, I thought. How big a deal can it be? But as soon as I stood at the edge of the Canyon—that gaping and gorgeous slash—awe sluiced through me. I stood, a dumb witness to the wonder in front of me.
The thought of striking out into the cold November wind of Duluth that day just to see a big boat felt much the same. Really?
We got in the car and soon found ourselves huddling with the other brave souls along the canal wall to watch the ship come in.
Alarm bells starting going off—to warn people away from the Lift Bridge that literally rises up in the air so the gigantic ships can pass under.
I thought of the people stuck in the cars, wondering if they knew to expect this delay, wondering if some were hammering their steering wheel with a frustrated fist—at this forced pause in their day.
The ship’s horn blared like the triumphant shofar of the Lord, that spiritual wake-up call to reflection and renewal.
Soon, a low-riding, iron beast glided into the canal as it came home to dock, to unload its burdens.
To be still.
This makes it sound easy, like parking a car in a wide open parking lot, but that day was wild and windy, and the ship felt like it could hold my entire small hometown. White caps slapped against its massive hull, and the canal gave the ship what felt like 50 feet of clearance on each side. How in God’s name was the captain able to navigate that?
I’ve driven boats before, and it is definitely not like driving a car. When you turn the wheel of a car, you generally know what will happen next (unless you are hydroplaning or skating on ice).
Turning the wheel of a boat often feels more like a suggestion than a command—because Unseen Forces that you can’t control are at work. Wind, wave, current—all these pullings and pushings—sometimes subtle, sometimes fierce and howling.
And it takes time to change direction with a boat. The bigger the vessel, the longer it takes. Deep time, slow time, to turn, to go the new way you want to go.
As often happens when I am in the presence of Big Energies, I could feel myself wanting to weep. This world. Yes, it is the world of English muffins and toothpaste—predictable presences in our lives, and these stalwart companions to our days can make us feel in control. We know how things will unfold.
But then something arrives to remind us of how small we are. Not only can these Beyond-Our-Controls push and pull us, they can capsize us,leave us crashing, flailing, sinking.
They can interrupt our story. Make us wait for who knows how long for who knows what next.
They can leave us in awe. Not only at their scale, but at what can happen when they are handled by an expert hand. Years of study. And practice. Steady, easy.
A wonder, really.
And a chance to invite all hands on deck, to help navigate the challenges ahead.
As I stood there beside the ones I loved, I thought, This. This is how you come home.
A Hit of Hope is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.