every moment is in the past every experience dissolves into a memory as soon as a moment in time arrives it retreats into yesterday the crimson and deep blue sea colors of a sunrise merge with a new day and they quietly disappear after loudly announcing the gift of a new day a photograph tries to stretch the brevity of the moment
but it remains powerless to make the moment last it only amplifies the memory which in turn makes the moment more elusive it only brings to our consciousness that the moment has slipped away and continues to slip away beyond our reach it only represents the beauty and majesty of the Creator and brings us face to face with this mysterious transient thing that we call life which i think is why an old stoic and wise man once said
It is better to go to a home where there is mourning than to one where there is a party, because the living should always remind themselves that death is waiting for us all. Sorrow is better than laughter; it may sadden your face, but it sharpens your understanding. Someone who is always thinking about happiness is a fool. A wise person thinks about death. *
a bit dark
i suppose
but also true
pondering impermanence stills our striving for things that do not last heals our hearts of passions that never satisfy pauses our pride in who we think we are
so i will welcome the loud colors let the moments slip away even as i too am slipping away following the crimson and deep blue colors pondering the promises of a heavenly voice
He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. **
This year, April/May rains give way to an “it’s as dry and hot as August” June and early July. The rebellious corn paid no attention to the high temperatures and arid conditions. You could practically hear the fields defiantly celebrating and shouting, “Knee high by the 4th of July! We did it!”
For years now I have been riding my motorcycle through the vast corn and soybean fields in the northern plains of Illinois. When the corn is proud and adorned with tassels, it feels like you’re surfing along ocean waves of green and gold as the wind turns the stalks into an emerald sea with “goldcaps” worthy of carrying, or capsizing, any sea vessel.
One of my favorite rides is heading north on U.S. Route 52. To be more precise, Route 52 follows a northwest, southeast orientation. Taking it northwest, towards the Mississippi River, I marvel at how the landscape lets go of the plains and clothes itself with gentle, rolling hills that can feature fantastic vistas of endless farm land, farm houses, and corn silos. My destination: Savanna, IL.
On this 4th of July ride it is almost too hot to ride. Bright, blinding sunlight bounces off of everything, giving the world a washed out, desaturated feel. It feels good to finally make it to the river. Savanna has a simple riverfront, with a boat launch and a path along the banks of the river.
I find a bench and, as I sat, I noticed an older gentleman sitting to my left at a covered picnic table. I kept my foam ear plugs in and enjoy an apple and some cold water. I couldn’t have been on the bench for more than 3 minutes when muffled words breach my consciousness and I turn to see the older looking gentleman walking towards me, greeting me, and taking a seat right next to me. His bright blue eyes match his blue jeans and blue plaid shirt.
“Are you from this area?”
“No. I am about two and a half hours from home. I ride a motorcycle and come here often to enjoy the river.”
And that’s how my connection with Richard began. I say connection instead of conversation, because that’s what happened. We connected. Of course, we had a pleasant conversation, but it was the connection that turned this 4th of July ride into a delightful memory and meeting.
Richard is 82. He tells me he is related to many, if not most, of the people in the county. His family came to the US by boat from Germany. His dad was a farmer. He has two brothers: one is a preacher, the other is a teacher, and Richard was the farmer.
He tells me he comes to the river to talk, because he is alone now.
Of all the scenes of his life that he shared – I mean, how much can two old guys cover while they talk along the banks of the Mississippi River on a hot 4th of July? – it was his recounting of his marriage to his wife that I found so captivating.
“What is your wife’s name?,” I ask.
“Twila. Not many people named Twila anymore.”
“No… not anymore. Such a pretty name.”
He tells me that Twila passed away 4 years ago and that she battled cancer for most of their life together. His life included countless trips to the emergency room, endless doctor visits and arranging for help to take care of Twila at home. He speaks with no regret, or bitterness in his tone.
He recalls taking riverboat rides with Twila and their friends. I comment on how Twila must have been quite a force to be reckoned with and he tells me the doctors all said the same thing.
I don’t know how long we talked about Twila, grandkids, our own kids, and a number of other topics, but suddenly he looked at his watch and said, “Well. I’m going to go eat some potato salad.”
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Can I pray for you Richard?”
I told him earlier that I was a “preacher” like his brother, and that I have been pastoring for the past 20 years in a church in Minooka, IL.
We both bow our heads and I prayed for my new friend Richard.
Here is a bit of what I remember of my prayer: I am thankful for my new friend, Richard… I am grateful for the love and care that he faithfully gave Twila and how his example is helpful for me and a legacy for his family… I pray that he will continue to bear his loneliness with the same grace that he brings to connections along the banks of the river…
After a pause, I say Amen. We both lifted our heads and opened our eyes at the same time. His tears are flowing and make his blue eyes sparkle even more. We just look at each other in silence for a moment. I gently place my hand on his shoulder and simply say, “Life is hard.”
We both shake our heads in silent agreement. He rises and walks to his vehicle.
I wipe away my tears, filled with gratitude for a chance to connect to such a wonderful man. I make a commitment in my heart to do the best I can to welcome and connect to anyone that God brings my way. Because sometimes I fail to do so. Spectacularly so. That will be the topic of my next post.
I suppose that I will always be – if not always feel like – a New Yorker. My hometown of East Meadow was right next door to famous Levittown. After WWII, returning vets heard the siren songs of suburban living, and Levittown sang loud and proud.
Not quite sure where East Meadow fits in the swift rise of suburbia, but it mostly likely knew the songs that were in the air.
In 1964, Wilfredo and Carmen purchased a small, two story Cape Cod style home on a corner lot in East Meadow. I’ve always loved the name of our street: Wilson Lane. It has a noble sound befitting my mom and dad. They were poor, could hardly speak English, and were uneducated. Their royalty was in their wisdom, their tenacity and, in full measure, their love.
And you would need love to survive the “dawning of the age of Aquarius” in East Meadow, located in Nassau County, on Long Island, in New York State. Ironically, we were a little island of Puerto Ricans in an ocean of Italian, Irish, and Jewish families. And it was wonderful. I mean, where else could you go to school with Carmine Paradisio – is that a name, or is that a name?! – and then, as a high school student, sing in musicals with members of the local Jewish synagogue. I also grew up with the long, cold shadows of the normalization of hatred and racism.
And about that, I will say this: it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that it was difficult for my mom and my dad to live in that white suburban community. I’ll spare you the details of some of the stories, suffice it to say that, by some, we were not welcome. So much so that messages in the form of dog excrement being tossed in the yard was just one of the ways the turbulence of the times reached our corner lot. My mom and dad were silent about it, as far as I can recall. To this day, I truly believe they were teaching me important lessons. Don’t be a person who hates, even if you feel you have every reason to hate. Don’t order your life around those who have struggles in their hearts. Be a person of peace on a small little island in East Meadow in an ocean of turmoil. Peace would also need to make room for suffering, loss, and sorrow on that island. As much as we all want to live and experience life, this life can take so much from us that, even if we are still breathing, it feels like there is no reason to.
Rosalito was her name. Their firstborn. She lived for a few days. My mom mourned her until her last day. This event was the seed of much of my formation, but that’s a story that continues to unfold.
Which, of course, brings us to the present. My mom passed away in 2023 at the age of 97. She passed in the safety of her corner house… her little island in an ocean of love: my dad.
He still lives in that house and, even though my story is being told on the backlot of the Midwest, far from the Atlantic shore I love – more on that later – I have been returning home to be with my family almost every year for…well… 39+ years. And, following the well worn path of my childhood, those visits often included an eastbound trip on the Southern State Parkway to visit Rosalito.
I find that some childhood memories can show up for a visit in vivid, 3-D, surround sound. I find myself taking in the mysteriously beautiful sound of crunching autumn leaves as we brush them from around her tombstone. I can still feel my body sigh in relief as the cold water from a nearby hose washed away the unbearable heat and humidity of a Long Island summer. I can still smell the fresh, winter air as I huddled in my coat while my mom and dad whispered prayers and shed their tears. Home, family, and our little island in East Meadow will, for me, always be associated with death. And that is not a bad thing. It just is.
On this particular visit, a rainy, cold, late May welcomed me back home. Thankfully, a summer like early June won a toss of weather fronts with May. I set aside more than two weeks to be with my dad. We spent a day heading out to the southern tip of Long Island to greet the lighthouse at Montauk Point. A 3 ½ order lens (it sounds like I know what I’m talking about, but I don’t) built in 1902 was recently restored to the tippy top of that lighthouse. In a culture that places unnecessary value on new and improved, it’s comforting to realize that old and traditional can still guide and lead sojourners to light and safety. Of course, we visited Rosalito and Carmen. My mom was finally resting with my sister. We cleared out weeds, took out the artificial flowers that signaled care and love all through winter, and planted fresh, impossibly red flowers. If my mom could speak, she would tell me what the flowers were.
Though uneducated, she was a brilliant “botanist” who could revive any withered leaf, twig or petal and, as if she named each and every one herself, would tell you the name of just about any flower. God created a unique kind of nurturing spirit within her and I think losing her first child only deepened her longing to give and sustain life. Our house was a greenhouse. Green, colorful life was everywhere. And now, my dad made sure that color and life adorned the resting place of his little girl and his bride of over 60 years.
Any pilgrimage back east must include multiple mini-pilgrimages to the southern shores of Long Island. Specifically, Jones Beach.
Like the faithful ostinato from Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, this State Park has always been a part of me. Whether it’s a frigid, windswept winter seascape, or the end of a summer day showing off with a dazzling display of clouds and shafts of light shooting into space, or the slow motion blending and mixing of sunrise colors that Crayola never dreamed existed, this shore has been a place for reflection, prayer, worship and peace. And, every now and then, I hear and see the rocks cry out and tell of a Savior alive in this world.
I enjoyed a mid-morning stroll with my dad along the 2-mile long boardwalk. I marvel at his endurance and determination as he struggles to maintain balance and manage pain while he walks on his two artificial knees.
During a quiet, pre-dawn stroll on the shore, as the sun began to work on its morning art project, I am trying to figure out a way to take the colors right out of the sky and put them in my backpack.
in and around this tattered old town nestled in the state of my mind taking a stroll on the pathways through my soul standing on the corner i see memories of younger days melodies of different ways on a street named regret at the corner of joy looking for an answer or two reaching for something true since i was a boy
acceptance forgiveness and gratitude my heart yearns for something more than the sum total of my days so i set my gaze on things above the unseen real unfailing love
and i wait
and choose to be still
as the sun
settles down
on this old tattered town
i welcome
the end of this day
knowing it is the only way
to a new dawn
another pathway
hidden in the Light
safe in Him
i rise
i am safe in Him
i’ll rise
and there were threads in the garden and there were stars in the leaves and there jewels on the flowers and there were diamonds in the webs
and there were threads in my mind tethered to sorrow beauty lament wonder love
and there were stars in my heart sparkling memories regrets dreams loss hope
and there were jewels in my soul brilliantly reflecting the promises of my heavenly Papa the redemption of the Lamb the deliverance from the shadows of my brokenness
and there were diamonds all around family friends love companionship a smile an encouraging word gratitude melodies light beauty song
taking time to just be on this gentle quiet morning by the sea
soothing waves share their melodies as soft hues of morning light fall upon the endless sand and fill my eyes with stilled wonder
i try to look down into the deep of my own heart and feel the sad songs find the gifts of grace stay in anger’s embrace pray for resurrection to race through the turmoil and the pain lift me higher again so i can return to You and in so doing return to me
slowly the luminance of the colors rise across the sky as the colors of love wash over me eternity is in my heart thankful for each crazy part of this thing called life
and i find that i’m choosing to let it all in i stand in the light while i’m feeling the pain that keeps falling like rain on my story again and the clouds crowd my soul so i let it all go carried on whispered prayers with hands pleading lifted in unspoken longings eyes searching for some kind of answer in this darkened light embracing the rain and the clouds and all the unseen running into the light as it reaches all that’s been perhaps a lament or two will see me through the paradox of this impermanent journey a time for everything and everything in time i’ll welcome the longing with singing celebrate the love with understanding that all is fading into unending yesterdays and the clouds crowd my soul so i let it all go and i’ll walk towards the light keep my eyes on things above and choose to love here below and let it all go through trembling whispers of faith until i find my way home with some amazing grace
remembering letting go surrendering finding slow winter’s cold a memory blooming color here comes summer seasons in my heart some things i can start again and some well they just are
moments in the sun will soon run away colors will fall winter will howl lonely branches will soon help me see
so i explore the seasons in my life some things must die some things bring so many whys
but with each blossom all this beauty wrapped up tightly waiting to spring i surrender let go and find some slow and sing
opened your eyes got out of bed but are you awakened exercised a protein drink from the blender but did you remember to feed your soul to workout the stuff in your heart that you took to bed last night
the morning routine out the door traffic and weather report looks grim you steel your mind and shut the door telling yourself that you are fine another sip of coffee but did you remember to feel something that you know is there to understand yourself just a little bit more being and doing doing and being
more you and i know there is more than the deadline more than all this activity did we lose ourselves more likely we numb ourselves away from pain and disorientation keep the radio on get busy and fill the schedule it’s helps to drown out the noise of all that’s in my head maybe i should have stayed in bed
put the keys on the counter there’s nothing in the fridge it was a good day at the office on the worksite on my shift i think i impressed… someone… anyway i suppose it was just another day there’s something still inside… wait…
why am i crying...
i must be tired or a bit confused maybe a drink will clear out my head hulu and netflix aren’t helping tonight how long have i been staring at this parade of options
was i crying tonight
maybe it was the traffic it was a long day i think i’ll go to bed and try again tomorrow to shake this restless sorrow being doing doing being am i living am i awakened
i know it’s been a long sad sad song and it seems like winter will go on and on i’ll stay here with you in the cold in the dark until we see the new
and in this shadow of death i’ll stay by your side and if it seems that spring is all around but it's not in you a colorless world endures i’ll sit with you cry with you listen to all your angry words until the shadows fall and the flowers return
so if for you this day brings sorrow upon sorrow just another monochrome morning let’s find Him together and believe together that on this steep and narrow road there is tomorrow
and when you cry i won’t ask why and if you ask me how long you’ll be in this sad sad song i could tell you but i’d probably be wrong but i promise I’ll stay and in the dirt and in the dark and in the cold and in this timeless pain we will find new life together
rutakintome pictures 
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