Two engines.

I remember the day it arrived. Everyone in my family was assembled on the dock, and, when instructed by brother, the boat’s first captain, we boarded the pristine Boston Wailer for its maiden voyage into the Barnegat Bay. My ten year-old heart thought it the most exciting present ever and envied my brother more than was healthy.

It had one engine, went pretty fast, but I soon noticed others with two engines, some of which were twice the size of my brother’s one. My brother explained having two engines provided not only strength to manage swift currents and rough seas, but also helped if one engine broke.

I was reminded of that lesson while watching the news of a tanker lost at sea after running into hurricane Joaquin. Maybe the storm was too much, or its engine broke, but whatever the reason the ship and all its crew and cargo were lost.

After watching the news, I went to my morning twelve-step meeting where we spoke of the various storms of our lives, past and present, and how we are trying to make our way to the other side of such challenges daily. I was reminded not only of the tanker’s unsuccessful voyage, but also my brother’s lesson about two engines.

Storms are inevitable, but how we approach them can make all the difference. That’s true for tankers as well as people like you and me trying to make our way through this voyage called “life.” We can live trying to avoid storms, head arrogantly into them as if invincible, or travel somewhere between such extremes, but set sail we must. Remaining in the harbor is tempting, but it’s not what we we’re created for.

With storms come rough seas that toss and turn even the most grounded and secure. The lost tanker was loaded with cargo, and, I am sure, its weight hindered its ability to navigate the turbulent waters. In normal seas, carrying such a load would be acceptable, but in rough seas the less cargo the better.

The lesson from my brother taught me it's best to have more than one engine. You never know when storms will arrive, or when an engine will break. The strength of more than one engine can help master swift currents and destructive waves. Having more than one engine can make all the difference if one breaks.

I suppose that’s why people attend church, or come to meetings like the one I attend each morning. Learning about storms, hearing people’s experience, strength and hope from their travels can assist even the most experienced sailor. Sitting beside others, in a pew or metal chair, can be like having more than one engine. When one breaks, the other is there to help get us through the storm.

Perfect Pitch

“It the place about which I have perfect pitch.” Reynolds Price

When Wendy arrived at her audition, she was asked to sing a song other than the one she prepared. It was familiar, but not in her range, which caused her to struggle reaching the high notes. Before crossing her name off the list, the director asked her to sing a song of her choosing, revealing her significant talent. He heard her perfect pitch.

He was not like the other fathers. He couldn’t throw a football, was incapable of going camping, and was completely uncomfortable at father-son nights at his child’s woodshop class. But he could play any song on the piano by ear, perform on the organ using both hands on the numerous keyboards and feet on the peddles, and, most impressive of all, compose music while sitting on the beach, not hearing a single note. Music was his home, the place he had perfect pitch, literally and figuratively.

She and her husband questioned having children. With emerging careers, and a love for the freedom of being child-free, they seriously considered remaining so. However, children arrived, and suddenly she found a part of her heart she didn’t know existed. The determined professional gave way to the enthralled mother. Never looking back, she embraced her children fully. She found her true self, her perfect pitch.

He packed for the wedding with deep excitement. Returning home to family and friends who knew him completely, filled him with deep excitement. In their presence, he did not have to perform, nor explain. Sitting among them, he could breath deep. These were the people, this was the place, about which he had perfect pitch.

Whites of our eyes.

“Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes, “ the American commander William Prescott shouted at Bunker Hill, reminding his troops to wait until the enemy was close enough to ensure a good chance of hitting their targets.

From the other side of the quotation, it spoke of the fact that, at some point, the enemy would need to rise and climb the hill. Despite their fears, they would need to draw close and engage with the enemy, so close others could see the whites of their eyes.

Although the moment is tucked safely away in history, I wonder when the last time something, or someone, saw the whites of our eyes? No, we are not down behind barricades at Bunker Hill. No, we are not being called to rise above our fears and climb that famous hill, nor face colonial enemies. We are not being asked to let them see the whites of our eyes, but, then again, maybe that’s exactly what we are being called to do daily.

In my own reflection, I can see countless examples of times when I’ve stayed huddled behind various kinds of barricades. Knowing there was a cause or purpose for which I needed to fight, I’ve played it safe and let others do the work. So, too, I’ve risen, if only to be seen and admired for standing, but succumbing to my fears and not climbing the hill.  Too often, I have refused to get close enough for one to see the whites of my eyes.

How about you?

When was the last time you gave up a weekend of rest and relaxation to help build a house for a deserving family?

When was the last time you moved beyond what was safe and easy and moved the decimal point of a contribution?

When did your business focus on something courageous or risky rather than safe?

When did you go sit with someone deep in grief, rather than bake another chicken casserole?

When did you get up and face your cancer diagnosis and then use your struggle to help others?

When was the last time you gave voice to an opposing view, knowing it would be unpopular or make others uncomfortable?

When did you stand close enough to a friend to point out his or her wayward ways?

When was the last time you stood up for someone after they made a mistake while others feasted on the scandal?

Each represents an opportunity to rise, climb a hill, and get close. The question is: what will we do when the opportunity to get close arrises? Will we hide behind barricades by saying we can’t make a difference, or rise and make the difference we can? Will we let others do the work because we are so busy, or will we get busy working with others? Will we keep others (and life itself) at a safe distance, or will we get close, so close they can see the whites of our eyes?