An Unfinished Race & Meditation XVII

Last week I posted something on Facebook about having come to the end of an unfinished race. As a result several people have inquired as to what it was all about.  A few of you were concerned as to my health

 

Lisa and I have resigned our ministry position and for the first time in 30 years we are without a church appointment. So, with that, I have come to the end of something. However, the race is not finished, in fact it’s far from over. We’re just in a holding pattern for the moment.

Thus, the poet in me expressed my current situation as having, “…come to the end of an unfinished race.” I’m not sick and have not received any bad news as far as health goes, but thank you to those of you who were concerned. I’m blown away and very humbled by the hits this blog gets from readers across the country and around the world.

Long ago and far away during those dark days of Europe's Bubonic Plague a minister by the name of John Donne who lived and served in London wrote something called Meditation XVII.  At the time much of the population had moved out, and away, from the city, due to a fear of the sickness.

While others were fleeing, Donne elected to stay and minister to the hurting.  It was during this time of ministry when he became sick himself. Attending physicians were concerned and thought perhaps had also contracted The Plague Thus, Meditation XVII is autobiographical in that he thought he was dying at the time of its writing. 

At its peak, over one thousand people a day were dying of the dreaded disease within the vicinity of London alone and every death was counted by a tolling of The Cathedral Bell. Imagine being in London during that time and lying in bed sick listening to the bell tolling one thousand times outside your bedroom window. 

In such a state the great pastor and poet wrote Meditation XII.

"PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls for him.  And perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that.  The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does, belongs to all.  When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head too, and ingraffed into that body, whereof I am a member.  And when she buries a man, that action concerns me; all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and well as his, whose indeed it is.  The bell doth toll for him, that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute, that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God.  Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises?  But who takes off his eye from a comet, when that breaks out? who bends not his ear to any bell, which upon any occasion rings?  But who can remove it from that bell, which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?

No man is an island,  entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were;  any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbors.  Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did; for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.  No man hath affliction enough, that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction.  If a man carry treasure in bullion or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current moneys, his treasure will not defray him as he travels.  Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it.  Another may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell that tells me of his affliction, digs out, and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger, I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.


This afternoon, it's the..." No man is an island," that speaks to my soul. Thank you Mr. Donne for the reminder and for the sacrifices you made while writing Meditation XVII.

 

 

1972,Watergate,The Note and lots of grace.

In 1972 While America was knee deep in something called The Watergate Scandal I was eleven years old and neck deep in a scandal of my own. A note had been discovered on the floor of my fifth grade class and suddenly my world was turned upside down.

(Excerpt) 

In the fall of 1973, when I was eleven years old and in the fifth grade at Sumner Elementary School, a note was discovered on the classroom floor, just after the lunch period, while we were getting ready for afternoon lessons.

It was found by a girl who had picked it up while walking over to the pencil sharpener, and after pausing to read it, was offended by the content and quickly handed it over to the teacher.

I was oblivious to what was going on at the time, but when Mrs. Emory asked the class to sit down then held up a piece of paper and said, “This has just come to my attention,”  I was in deep DOO!

I knew that what she held in her hand was something a friend and I had written earlier that morning. Included in that note were several rude and crude remarks about a few of the other kids, and if that were not enough to sink the ship we had also written some very degrading things about Mrs. Emory.

My young heart began to race as a sickness invaded the pit of my stomach. A quick glance at my partner in crime, told the story. His presence began to morph as the combination of fear and guilt hit him like a one two punch. He was beyond pale. He looked more like a ghost.

I knew our only hope was in the fact that we had known better than to sign our names to such a document. Therefore Mrs. Emory spent the next hour lecturing the class and trying to determine who could have written such horrible and disgusting things.

When questioned we both lied, and I was sure we would escape the inevitable. Until she had the entire class take out a pencil and a piece of paper and dictated a few words, so she could compare the handwriting.

OOPS!

When that exercise in futility produced no reliable results, she was frustrated, and as means of punishment, had us lay our heads on our desks for the last thirty minutes of the day, or until someone confessed. My friend and I looked at each other and though words were not spoken, communication was established and we kept our mouths shut.

When the bell rang she dismissed class and said, “I’ll be calling all parents later this evening to schedule a conference. Hopefully they can come in and look at the note. I’m sure that will help us get to the bottom of the problem.”

That nightmare of a day was followed by a long walk home and quiet dinner. Every time the phone rang I cringed. My parents knew something was troubling me because they kept asking if I felt alright, and though I cannot remember what we had for dinner that evening, I do recall my glass of milk turning warm by the time Mrs. Emory phoned our house.

When the call finally came we were sitting around the table, so my mother stood up and reached for the phone. When she answered, “Hello.” Then said, “Good evening Mrs. Emory,” my father looked at me with a narrowing focus and whispered, “What have you done?” As a diversion I reached for my warm glass of milk, forced down a swallow and said, “I haven’t done anything Dad.”

Mom talked with Mrs. Emory for a few minutes and during the course of their conversation said, “No, we have not heard anything about a note, and yes we’ll be happy to come in Monday evening for a conference. I can’t imagine a child writing something like that. Thank you for calling.”

My father shifted his eyes toward me and then looked back at mom. As she placed the phone on the receiver I could feel the tension, and it made for one of those awkward moments when seconds seem like hours and all you can do is make your best attempt to look innocent. I knew better than to speak, because experience had already taught me in those situations he who speaks first, loses.

As it turned out mom took the lead when she asked,” Well son, what’s this about a note that was found in class today?” I hesitated for a moment and had a thought that came more like a vision. Suddenly I saw myself as a batter standing at the plate and my mother was winding up to throw a fastball. I didn’t know wither to swing, or let it pass.

“Oh yeah. A note was found today and that’s about all I know.” And with that response she reached way down into her arsenal and pulled out one of those looks that asks, “do you really think I’m that stupid,” and sarcastically said, “So I guess you were, ‘about,’ to tell us when the phone rang.”  And with that exchange I heard the pop of her fastball sinking into the catcher’s mitt as the umpire yelled, “Strike!”  

The following link will take you to The Note:

http://www.amazon.com/Note-Cameron-Dockery-ebook/dp/B00KFT9X9K/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1400988581&sr=1-1&keywords=cameron+dockery

To publish, or not to publish. Now, that is the question.

What does Charles Dickens and Walt Whitman have in Common with The Bible? You may be surprised.

The Road Not Taken: A story of Robert Frost and Edward Thomas.

The Road Not Taken, is one of America's favorite poems written by on of America's most iconic poets. It has been interpreted many times and in various ways. In this video I'm sharing the story and experience behind the poem and poet and introducing Edward Thomas who played a huge role in the process. A process that help to build a platform for Robert Frost and an experience that played heavily in the writing of one of the poets most famous works.



I too, am standing at a fork in the road of my own life's experience and have consulted an old mentor and his poem during the process. I hope this story speaks to you.

An Old Poet and Birches: It speaks to my heart.

In 1916 after having sold the family farm and retreating to England where he published, A Boy's Will and North of Boston, Robert Frost released his third collection, Mountain Interval. 

He had just returned to America and was offered a contract with Henry Holt Publishing, who managed to pick up the American rights to his first two books. Included in Mountain Interval were The Road Not Taken, Birches and The Oven Bird, among others. The Road Not Taken and Birches reached iconic status decades ago.
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Birches is presented as a biographical narrative in that it draws from memory and incorporates personal experience. This evening I'm  drawn in to his experience when the voice changes in the forty second line and the poet shifts into the first person singular to  testify:

".....So was I once myself a swinger of birches;  
And so I dream of going back to be.  
It's when I'm weary of considerations,  
And life is too much like a pathless wood  
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs  
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping  
From a twig's having lashed across it open..."

Mr. Frost, you had a good life though it was never easy. The heart ache and disappointment you suffered were more than most could bear. When you speak of being, "..weary of considerations," and say "...life is too much like a pathless wood..." I get it.

 And so tonight I'm medicating on poetry as the world passes by.