The knife and stone.

It was a knife handed down three generations. To the young recipient, the gift was a connection to his past, a gateway to adulthood. It was his turn to carry it, and then, one day, pass it on to his child.

He carried the knife wherever he went and placed it on his dresser each night with the reverence of a priest, but the knife reamained in its sheaf for protection. His father reminded him it was a gift to be used, so the boy began using the knife more and more each day, always wiping the blade clean each night. Eventually, the knife became dull, and his father taught him perhaps the most important lesson of all: how to sharpen the blade.

“A blade does no good if not kept sharp,” his father began. "To sharpen it, you must rub it against stone. There are many types of stone that work, but only stone is strong enough to sharpen metal.”

As he sharpened the blade many years later, in anticipation of bestowing the knife to his child, the grown man reflected on his life. Moving the blade back and forth against the stone, he remembered the many times he, too, was sharpened against stone. Rejections from colleges, taking the wrong jobs, unhealthy friendships, being lost in self centered thinking, making mistakes, losing friends, arguments with people he loved, the death of a beloved friend, and countless other struggles (or rubs) . . .  these were the stones against which his life had sharpened. Along the way, there were many times he longed for the security of a sheaf, but he was wise enough to now know, like his knife, his life was a gift to be used. Looking back, he could see how the hardest struggles were the ones that sharpened him most.

Perhaps I should point that out when I give this, he thought, but realized it was one of those lessons learned only though experience.

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.