Rocks

“Why on earth are we gathered here?” asked the disgruntled resident of the seaside community. “If you ask me this whole idea of putting rocks in front of the dunes is a foolish idea. After all, the ocean’s never come close to the houses before.”

There were others who shared his opinion, and the debate lasted throughout that meeting and many others. For some, the cost was more significant than the risk, but the prevailing opinion was that it was in the town’s best interest to fortify itself.

Each time the man most opposed to the idea encountered the town leader, he ridiculed him and pointed to the sea. “Look there! Maybe that wave will reach the rocks.”

It didn’t.

Nor did any wave in their lifetime.

The rocks were eventually covered with sand, and most residents forgot, or never knew, they were there until a hurricane named “Sandy” arrived sixty-five years later. With winds and seas beyond anyone’s memory, Sandy destroyed countless homes and businesses. When the hurricane passed, the majority of that seaside town remained, but towns to the North and South suffered far greater damage.

As residents surveyed the damage, they saw huge rocks uncovered in front of the dunes. “Where did those come from?” one woman asked.

It wasn’t until recently that we learned the story of the rocks. I hope my grandfather knows that, in the end, he was right.

Wounded Boy

“Get a job!” the adolescent shouted from the dented Chevy

To the stumbling fellow with brown bag in his hand.

Who knows what causes one to say such things,

Or stumble in such a way,

But the answer lies deeper

Than what can be seen or heard.

Was it a painful childhood refrain,

Or insurmountable yardstick,

Used to measure and beat

The boy to his knees,

Carving a hole

Through which life’s winds blow

Like a dentist locating a cavity?

What happened to the childhood dance,

Where wonder was his partner,

Where trees swayed,

Fireflies swirled,

And parents hugged?

As the light turns green,

The truck speeds on,

Leaving disdain’s dust behind.

The stumbler takes a curb

shakes his head, and sighs:

 “What a wounded boy.”

A heck of a sermon.

He gave a heck of a sermon.

Like many 8^th graders before him, he accepted the invitation (or challenge) to deliver a sermon before graduating. After weeks of thought and composing, the moment came for him to climb the stairs into the pulpit and express a theological thought. It’s a notable accomplishment for anyone, let alone one so young, but the fact that a year ago he suffered from an anxiety disorder that paralyzed him with fear made the achievement beyond comprehension.

Who knows from where such anxiety comes, but the tears and begging not to have to go into a chapel, where he might be called up or recognized in some way, was as undeniable and it was unexplainable. His parents and teachers worked to give him the space and understanding needed. Some days it provided the relief needed; other days, it didn’t.

As he turned the corner into his senior year, his parents quietly wondered whether he would ever be able to give a sermon like so many of his classmates. Much to their delight, he announced his intention to do so and the date, which seemed ages away when it was first assigned, suddenly arrived.

Parents and teachers alike wondered if he would go through with it when the time came. Sleeping better than his parents the night before, he made it to the chapel for last minute preparations. After the opening hymn, lesson, and introduction by the Headmaster, he climbed the stairs into the pulpit.

He gave a heck of a sermon, but I have no idea what he said.