revjohn
Well-Known Member
Graeme Decarie said:
Quite to the contrary. It is here where I feel most at home.
The icefields shift and move. One would be tempted to think they went on forever and will always be there but if you look, day after day, you see that is not so. Every so often we get one berg trapped in an eddy of current that appears to hang in place for weeks at a time. When the larger bergs come in close they will drag on the bottom of the bight. Sometimes you can hear it. Other times you can feel it.
Thousands of tons of ice thousands of years old, scraping on the bottom of the ocean resonates deep inside of you.
And eventually there is a point in the year where the ice is no longer ubiquitous. Then, you may catch a rumble of whale song from the deeps or hear the thunderclap of many tons of whale crashing back down into the waves. Or maybe, you see and hear nothing more than the sound of a blowhole clearing and a quick deep inhalation.
The earth, the waves the sky all of it sings here. And the song is anything but sadness or sorrow. It is love and laughter and joy.
Graeme Decarie said:
I thrive on solitude. I am comfortable shutting up and listening for what the world tells me.
I am not a hermit. I could probably be quite happy as one. Not time for that in my life yet.
In all the laughter and love and joy there is still opportunity for lament. To be candid, I think lament is us at our most human. A confession of our great helplessness against the march of time and wails of sorrow for what is lost. Moments when we don't have answers and know that even if we did have answers they could not undo what has been done nor can they return to us what is truly lost.
And herer, at the end of the earth I feel the heart beat of life and I am convinced that what has been lost still exists to be found and the world around me sings the praise of my Creator.
I look at the Creation on my doorstep and I cannot for a second pretend it is not fearfully and wonderfully made. The Polar bear stalking silently, deadly, intelligently and gracefully is fearfully and wonderfully made. The humpbacks constantly eating their fill and finding time to frolic are fearfully and wonderfully made. The Moose who looks so awkwardly put together moves easily and silently like a ghost through the brush I can only push through awkwardly and noisily.
And their is birth and death and love in between and beyond either.
True, it changes, bit by bit year by year. And some of that alarmingly fast and perhaps irreversible.
But there is a truth here which speaks for those who have ears and are inclined to use them.
Deep speaks to deep.
Winds howl and blow, driving salt spray and, depending upon the time of year and the direction of the wind, blowing straight through the heart of you. Reminding me that I am but the grass of the field, today I may flower and by tomorrow I may wither and perish yet, life will still sing her song of praise.
When I sit and listen I cannot make out the words. I can do very little but resonate with it.
Some of the toughest challenges of ministry happened here in St. Anthony. Moments when lives were undone and fragile faith was stretched beyond limit. None of that stopped the song so much as it made the song richer.
Being a part of that, welcomed into all of that, to be embraced by a humble loving people and accepted among them.
That allows one to do more than cope. It is here where I thrive.
