On 09/11/01, I was…

Sunday, September 11, 2011

 

On 09/11/01,  I was…

Has it been ten years? It seems a million years ago. It seems yesterday. Has it really been ten years?

Oelschlager.  Douglas, I think. Yes, Google confirms that it was Douglas. He was a man I’d never met. Doug was one of the heroes—one of the fireman who ran into the Towers on 9/11 and gave his life trying to save others. That is almost everything I know about him, except for the most important thing: He is remembered and loved. As I sit here trying to find words for this prompt, half-listening and watching the Ceremony at the World Trade Center Site, I just caught a brief half-glimpse of two children running their fingers in those letters etched in marble. Oelschlager. I don’t know who the kids are. I don’t know if they knew Doug, if they are his family or friends or the children of someone whose life was saved by Doug’s actions. I can only speculate. I only know—they are running their fingers in the letters of his name. Whether they intend or not, they are remembering Douglas Oelschlager.

They are only two kids. Others have filled other letters of other names with their own fingers and tears. Many are resting their hands on the names of loved ones lost. Some are kneeling and praying, placing white roses and American flags and photos on the names. And countless are making rubbings of the names on the Memorial using crayons and the master lists of those who died that day ten years ago. Each one is remembering someone.

We will never forget. Those were our words. That was America’s promise: We will never forget.

But sometimes I think we have forgotten. We remember the names and the faces, the images, the heroes, the victims. Do we remember the liberty?

Ten years ago, freedom was attacked by an enemy who couldn’t even look us in the eye with its challenge. America was founded upon the idea that a man could govern his own life, make his own decisions, and live with the consequences of those decisions. On September 11th, America remembered how precious, how costly, and how fragile that freedom is.

There will always be loss. There will always be sorrow. There will always be empty places in our hearts where loved ones belong. Knowing we will always face these things does nothing to assuage them. But even in the deepest despair, there is hope; even in the darkest night, there is a fading indigo into dawn; even when our grief is so heavy upon us for not making sense, there is a promise. There is freedom. There is hope.

Wherever you are, whatever you are facing, however your heart is breaking, dig your fingers deep down into the name of freedom. May there always be a letter deep enough for your rose stem. May there always be a crayon to rub a picture of the names on your heart. May there always be a place to rest your knees when you kneel to pray. May you always find an arm around you as you weep. May you always free an arm to hold others in their turn. May you know how very precious freedom is, and may you always defend her.

And may you never, never forget.

All my love,

Aunt Sarah

My first job was…

Sunday, September 4, 2011

My first job was…

Our family was young when I took my first “job.” Mom was struggling to keep food on the table, and each of us (I think) found some way to help—whether it was working at a job or helping in the house or…whatever. We all contributed. That’s how a family works, right? Well, I took my first job when I was too young to know any better.

There is a local company that produces dairy products. I used to go there to sample the ice cream. Yeah. Well, one day Mom and I were there and they saw how adorable I was. Someone came out and asked if I’d like to star in an advertisement they were doing.

Are there red lights flashing in your head? Do you see a huge stop-sign in your mind? Yeah, me too…but at the time, it sounded fun. Dressing up in a cow outfit? What could be more fun? What could be more adorable? Are you kidding me? I was going to be a star.

The ad didn’t air for long—thank the good Lord!—and we didn’t tell anyone about it at the time. Not even my siblings. It was a bit humiliating, after all…my cute little round face poking out of a cow costume. Though…I always suspected my older siblings knew about it, due to a cow-type nickname they used to have for me (along with a song which Steven will be happy to teach you, I’m sure—though, I hope one of you will assure him that if he shares the song anywhere on the internet [and trust me, I’ll know if he does], those Parkay photos are going up. Everywhere.).

I digress. The agreement Mom entered into with the company was to forego any monetary compensation and pay us in a free year’s supply of milk. We totally scored. A family of seven growing kids? We drank a whole herd’s weight in milk that year, I’m sure.

So. That was my first job. That was my big contribution to the family. That…if you want to know the truth…is why I’ve always had a “thing” for cows—they provided for us when we needed it the most.

And that aint no bull.

All my love,

Aunt Sarah

My favorite teacher is…

Sunday, August 28, 2011

My favorite teacher is…

I know you’re expecting me to say that my English teachers were my favorites—and they were; or that Mrs. Porter was my favorite—and she was; or that Stephen Smith was my favorite—and he was; or that Vicki B. was my favorite—and she was; or that Mrs. Arnold was my favorite—and she still is. I have had several favorite teachers in the course of my life. It is an incredible blessing to have learned so much (not just curriculum) from so many of the teachers I’ve encountered on my life’s journey.

But today, I have to mention someone a little bit off-the-expected-road: Stephan Schoeman.

I don’t really believe in luck. I believe in blessings, and I believe in God ordaining things to come about in our lives, and I believe in His mercies in those split seconds when we realize how close we came to danger. But I think back on my time with Stephan, and even though I believe it was God’s plan for me to study under this great violinist in a rinky-dink place like Houghton (and how did such an extraordinary musician end up in Houghton, anyway?), I still think, “Wow, I was so lucky to be his student!”

Stephan was something of a big deal (though I had no idea back then; at the time, he was just Stephan to me). He was a violinist from South Africa with crazy, crazy hair. When my family moved to the Houghton area in late 1993, I was so disappointed to learn that there was no orchestra in the schools. I’d been playing viola for more than a year at that point, and I was doing well; I loved it. I don’t have a clue what it cost her at the time, but I know it must have been a huge sacrifice. Nonetheless, mom paid for me to take private lessons through Suzuki. And that’s how I met Stephan.

At the time, I was the only viola student in the organization. Stephan loved that, I think. He was an excellent teacher—not just in the basics, but in encouraging me to be strong and confident when I played. But the best thing about Stephan was that he didn’t seem to realize how awful I was in comparison to him. Every time we met for lessons, he played along with me, harmonizing and improvising on his violin (the only violin I’ve ever called “beautiful”).

Michael Card once said, “There are two kinds of geniuses. There are geniuses that you see perform and you tell yourself, ah, I could never do that. They sort of shut down your creativity. Then there are geniuses that you see that draw you in and fire you up to go and be creative and to write songs and to play.”

That’s how I felt about Stephan. Even though his skill far surpassed my own (in such enormous measure that I don’t even know a word that might describe the amount), Stephan engaged me where I was and made me feel like I was capable of playing alongside him.

Mom was telling me yesterday about affirmation. She said that it’s important for us to affirm people—not just to speak kindly to their greatness, but to speak kindly to their mediocrity and imperfections so that they will grow into greatness.

I’m so thankful that Stephan was there to encourage and affirm music in my life, even though I don’t even play the viola anymore. For that, he really was my favorite teacher.

 

All my love,

Aunt Sarah

My favorite subject in school is…

Sunday, August 21, 2011

My favorite subject in school is…

If you guessed that your Aunt Sarah’s favorite subject in school was English, you are right! It was a fairly obvious answer, wasn’t it? I love words.

It’s a strange obsession, but I can confess it freely: I really love words. It’s ironic, isn’t it, since I’m not usually talkative? But it’s true. I don’t know why, but I love, love, love words. I love looking for just the right word for a given sentence; I love writing about a word until I really have a grasp of what it means; I love the smell, the flow, the stain, the permanence of ink; I love paper (oh, Lord, I love paper!); I love writing, even if I have nothing to write.

Words are powerful. As the Proverb says, the tongue has the power of life and death. I think that includes the written word, also. Words can build, edify, and bring life. With words, you can convey your earnest hopes, your deepest fears, and your greatest ideas. You can encourage. You can speak the truth. You can persuade. You can give the gift of hope, of simply expressing to someone that you are there for them. Words are a blade that can cut through the disillusionment of our culture and bring clarity to those around us.

And much the converse, unfortunately, words are also a blade that can cut a person down. Words have the power to discourage, deflate, and destroy. Sometimes we are careless with our words (and I hope we can all offer each other grace for those moments), but I sincerely hope for each of my nieces and nephews that you will learn to bridle your tongue—to speak truth, hope, and life.

May your tongues and pens be filled with life;

          May you refuse all that would tear another down;

          May you, above all, speak (and write) the truth in love.

All my love,

Aunt Sarah

I didn’t realize my family had grown until…

Sunday, August 14, 2011

I didn’t realize my family had grown until…

No joke.

Do you remember Joel and Erin’s wedding? Most of you were there. We had gathered at Little Presque for a beautiful ceremony of daisies and a driftwood arch. Each one of us was given odd tasks to help make the day a success. And afterwards, we all crowded around the bride and the groom and the trees for a family photo.

That was the moment for me. I was overwhelmed with how many bodies there were. I remember watching Kim (the photographer) arrange us, turning us this way and that, having one of us step forward and another step back, and thinking: “there’s no way she is going to fit us all in this photo. There’s just no way.”

Until that moment, I just hadn’t realized there were so many of us. In my mind, we were still a small (for having seven kids), close-knit family. Having all of us together that day, posed and smiling for the camera, I saw that we’ve grown in other ways, too. We have such a variety of personalities in our family. We were no longer just those whacko kids of Heidi’s. Suddenly, we were mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles; cousins, siblings, friends, and grandparents. Suddenly, we had a whole conglomeration of gifts and purposes, each unique in its own respect. Suddenly, we were no longer that broken family; we were that family full of love, full of hope, full of future.

We’ve grown so much. You’ve grown so much. Keep growing. No matter what life brings you, or me, or us—there will always be room in the photo for more.

 

All my love,

Aunt Sarah