"...Sire, these lines are not a homage to brutality
that the artist has invented, but a hymn
from the mouth of reality ..."
- Traditional prologue of the Dark Ages
A 19-year-old boy from Arp, Texas finds himself in North Africa with General Patton fighting the Desert Fox. It was a world away. Fast-forward a year, and the same boy is on a boat crossing the English Channel to land on Omaha Beach on D-Day +8 with the rest of the 612th Tank Destroyers, all of whom originated at Camp Hood way back in Texas. They pushed their way through France until the harsh winter slowed them down considerably. The Battle of the Bulge. The 612th was called a "Bastard Battalion" because they were not attached to any specific group. Lumped in wherever they were needed most, the high command that winter pushed the 612th up to the front where all but four of them were killed during what was some of the most intense fighting of the war. One of the four was my grandfather.
Papaw made it back to the states and never talked about the war again. All I know of the man who died when I was in seventh grade is from my grandmother, along with a few vague memories of him and me riding a motorcycle, horses, and shooting rats in the pig barn.
Three years ago I took my kids to the main sector of Omaha Beach. We stood there and listened to the waves. I have passed the stories on to them so that they can pass the stories on to their grandchildren.
After all, we are stories.
Speaking of stories...
A couple of days ago I listened intently to an interview with Nora Ephron. Other than my wife's and my love of When Harry Met Sally, I have little more than a pedestrian appreciation of Ephron's work. As I listened to her talk about her new book, she got on the topic of "last meals." You know, the old "What would you eat for your last meal?" conversation.
Ephron described a friend of hers who died recently of throat cancer. She was not able to eat a "last meal." Ephron learned a hard lesson: Eat your last meal all the time. Enjoy it today. Don't wait. If your favorite meal is a deep dish pizza, scour the earth to find the best one today.
As critical as I can get about institutional dynamics, whether church or national politics or dysfunctional families, the truth of the matter is that large or small, local or national, household or giant family reunion, all of us are a part of multiple gatherings throughout life. The hard truth is, there is no escape from machines. You can watch The Matrix ten times, but nothing ultimately dismantles the machine, no matter how much we rage against it.
If my grandfather were still alive, I think he would cringe to see how divided our country has become. Pick a side of the aisle, and like it or not, the rhetoric of both sides is doing what I am afraid may be irreparable damage. Likewise, I think he would look at the American church, especially compared to his experience as a deacon in the Baptist church just south of Pettus, Texas--(Yes, we are talking out in the serious sticks)--and likely think, "What's all the fuss?" The Papaw of my memory would say, "Just go to church, love those around you, and enjoy life." I'm not sure whether that's Papaw or Ecclesiastes. But it's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
I remember going to McDonald's with my grandmother every morning in Victoria, Texas as Papaw was dying of cancer. I could not count if I tried the number of times I had hotcakes and sausage sitting across from her as she ate her Egg McMuffin. Today, she's gone too. She died in a car accident ten years ago. Gosh. Ten years. But I am thankful for years of "last meals" we were able to share. I am so thankful.
My kids do not know it, but every time we go to McDonald's, and it is almost always at breakfast, usually on a road trip--(Let me start that sentence over.)
Every time I sit across from Reese as she eats her hotcakes and sausage--(Funny what gets passed down through the DNA, isn't it?)--I don't think about the institutional machines that surround us. No politics, or meetings, or anything else for that matter. Just McDonald's and my family. And again, I am so thankful. Reese, hotcakes, sausage. That's it. Nothing else matters at that moment. I just look at her beautiful eyes, eyes that remind me how much our stories are imbibed with deep contexts and experiences that shape who we are today. I just look at her beautiful eyes, eyes that remind me of my Papaw, and think about all the "last meals" we are still able to share thanks to the God-given gift of memory.
