CHRISTMAS BREAK: MEMORY OF A DAN FAN

Daniel Grayling Fogelberg    August 13, 1951 - December 16, 2007

After taking off from ATL, I waited until the okay was issued for electronic devices. I have my doubts as to why an IPOD would be detrimental to the computers flying the plane, but since my flying faith rests in the computer systems and the hands of the pilots, I would stand on my head the entire flight if such a request were made to ensure safety 37,000 feet up into the heavens. And I do get by with a little help from my flying angels.

Adjusting my ear buds, I pulled the shade down and settled off to sleep listening to a classical piano track. When I pulled up the shade, I found I had dozed all the way to NYC. I am simple. Seeing the city always excites me. Or just seeing a sign on the highway pointing to the city. I've only visited once, too long ago, but it was love at first sight. 

The autumn sun was shining on Manhattan and Central Park.  I smiled to think of all the lives being lived as I flew over, reminding me of my post. The plane's route hugged the eastern seaboard until about Boston. It looked as if a narrow white pencil had been used to outline where the sea touched the land. We were still too high to distinguish more than what was already perceived as a building or small blips in the water that had to be ships. 

The plane edged out over the Atlantic, heading towards Maine but still in easy sight of the coastline. As the plane descended, the faint white lines begin to show movement. A few scattered islands begin to appear out from the land as if rocks had been skipped out from the beach, glancing the water eight or nine times before sinking into the water, done over and over by a meticulous hand in another time  In descent, lighthouses began to be visible on top of the tiny islands and the white wash of waves grew broader against the gray stones.

Sun on the water revealed the rhythm of uncapped waves floating at the surface, rolling slowly towards the land like a blue lined page of paper but with broken places. A darker, silvery blue color of water, currents, skimmed below in a second layer, in various widths like veins traveling across the first legs of the seafaring journey, rivulets of rain following a random path down a cobalt mirror or tatted threads being pulled out to sea while the currents shuttle weave in pattern.
The gold of the sun.  The silvery blue.  The shimmer of the shine.   

My music man had already captured the moment. The line came to mind. From the air or from his sailboat, he had seen the magic in this water. Now the wonder of those same Maine waters had caught my breath and my vision blurred. For a few seconds, everything in my being rejoiced and worshipped, perfectly.

"On a high and windy island I was gazing out to sea
When a long forgotten feeling came and took control of me
It was then the clouds burst open and the sun came pouring through
When it hit those dancing waters in an instant all eternity I knew ."
Dan Fogelberg, Magic Every Moment from River of Souls  1993
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All those years ago, the very first notes of his music captured my heart.  For something different, check out his Christmas Album on YouTube, The First Christmas Morning. 
          

This is my Dan Fogelberg homage on the bulletin board by my desk.  That is me on a long ago Christmas morning, holding my first album, his second release, Souvenirs.  I'm listening on my new Sony headphones.

TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY

A highchair. Boxes for wrapping. Marshmallows and crushed pineapple. Wheat, rice, corn cereal. A special Santa box for someone special. Cranberries. Tylenol. Chocolate bark. Just a sample of the beginning of our Christmas shopping.

The neighborhood was quiet at 7:30 p.m. on a Friday night eleven days before Christmas. Where was the party traffic? I guess everyone was home wrapping presents and making Chex Mix.

The trees are standing, rounded in lights, ornaments caught up on tips and needles. Big, fluffed bows decorate papered boxes and tissue spills from glittered bags. Christmas movies make merry mirth and highlight the happy family faces. A tiny bell jingles.

In another home, a woman stares at the television and wonders if that medicine could help. Even thinking about preparing a box of stuffing is beyond the fog of her depression. She struggles to stay awake during Wheel of Fortune and then says goodnight, feeling guilty for absence. She settles to sleep with wordless prayers. Hoping the morning will look different.

An institution surrounded by tall, steel fences, sits quietly beneath security cameras and lights. People abandoned by families. Hopeless illness resistant to medicine or therapy. Another department full of patients deserted in twisted minds and insane crimes. Christmas cards will be handed out tomorrow and new socks. Five dollars for chips and cokes. For a few minutes, each will have a reason to reach out in hope.

A flood of memories in the middle of a busy day. Weighted shoulders. Cloudy day. The best dog died two years ago three days before Christmas. Years ago just before Christmas, an afternoon spent with my Daddy, heavy hearted with the depression of crippling illness, trying to coax a smile and settle a brow with words of encouragement and hope. A realization of  his outlook. But his everholding hope.

Returning home to the news of the death of my lifelong Music Man - never known but always loved. Playing his music through tears for both my loves.  Two years later, losing my father barely into the new year.

Everyone wants a table full of games and sledding down the hill with laughing children. Fighting over dinner rolls and soft candles on the mantel. Who can understand the lack of energy to enjoy friends or the debilitating physical pain living in the shame of depression. This is the best, happiest time of the year.

Lean in and whisper hope. We are Jesus to the hurting. Shine glory. Proclaim hope.