It is time. We begin the fifteen-hour drive to visit National Asset's parents. Neighbor Boy is minding the cats for us, and it is simply luxurious to travel by car without them. The sky is an endless cornflower blue expanse. Orchards are blooming. We leave the Sierra Nevada behind and delight in our first distant glimpse of Mt. Lassen, at the south end of the volcanic Cascade Range. We drive in the shadow of Mt. Shasta, its round, snowcapped peak appearing incandescent, the only thing still touched by the sinking sun.
Now, after several days in the home and town where National Asset grew up, it is raining on this Sunday morning. We drive a few blocks to church and sit in the center back section, under the balcony, where Mom and Dad have always sat. I gaze up at the low hanging ceiling. This is The Balcony. The one where we sat upstairs in cast-off seats from an old theater for Sunday night services during our courting days. Still teenagers, Pre-Asset was trying to teach me Morse code. We practiced by holding hands and squeezing dot-and-dash messages quietly during the sermon.
Okay. Some subdued giggling may have been involved.
Can't say that I remember much of that Morse code anymore, beyond SOS, of course. But being in this sanctuary has opened a gate and memories are a-flooding.
We studied catechism down in the basement, and met there for youth group, too. Pre-Asset and I used to sneak into the dark library for a rendezvous now and then, until the custodian, his grandpa, caught on to us. I dressed for my wedding down there in the kitchen by the gleaming pots and pans, and climbed the narrow stairs to the sanctuary to walk down the aisle and say I do. Then it was back down to the basement for our reception: punch and ham buns and cake. The same menu for most funerals as well, ably served by the Ladies Aid.
This morning I sit quietly in my seat. I see bits of ruby and turquoise stained glass, a semicircle peeping over the top of a large, white, rectangular screen hanging on the center front wall. I spent hours savoring the rich colors in the that window all those years ago as we sang and read Scripture and listened to sermons, but now I can't remember what the rest of it looks like.
We sing this morning, too, but not like I remember. The organ pipes large and small are hidden upstairs in the loft gathering dust. Pre-Asset took me up there once, and we walked carefully through this small, crowded forest of metal tubes. This organ was the pride of the church, back in our day. But I think it has been retired for some time now.
Although all age groups are represented, this morning many of the seats are filled with silver-haired folk like us, people who used to be a Sunday-morning choir of mixed parts: sweet sopranos and fluid tenors, altos and basses adding warmth and depth. Now we try our best, but the instrumentation and key signature are not in our favor.
Ours - National Asset's and mine - was the generation that suggested, encouraged, and politely but persistently pursued adding contemporary music and variation in instrumentation to the repertoire for worship. We were delighted when the church leaders agreed, and we took joy in being able to participate as teenagers and young adults with piano, drums, guitar - and even a choir of our own.
But, and this is a BIG but, we never desired - or envisioned - Christian worship that would throw out the baby with the bath water, musically speaking. On this Sunday, the very last congregational song is How Great Thou Art, the only hymn for the morning. And it is the song that comes closest to making me feel like I am actually part of a throng of worshipers instead of an observer, singing meaningful words that have stood the test of time.
We, the silver-haired contingent, give it our best. We try to adapt the traditional parts we know by heart to the limitation of guitar chords. Would it be so bad if someone actually played the organ or beautiful grand piano for just this one song?
Our minds and hearts engage... and when I think, that God, his Son not sparing, sent him to die, I scarce can take it in... while trying to keep pace with well-meaning musicians who either can't hear us or are untrained in the subtle art of accompanying singers.
The service ends and we are excused. We exit to the front steps. When I walked down them forty years ago as a brand new bride, I could look up and see blue sky. Now the steps are enclosed with walls and ceiling sheltering us from the rain, and packed with chattering people. The Asset and I see faces we recognize, people we knew in high school. Some names come easily. Some we have to work at or just apologize and ask.
I see Mr. Kredit, my high school biology teacher. One of my all-time favorites, he still teaches at the Christian high school, still engenders love for all things living in his students.
"You were Kathy's favorite teacher," the Asset tells him, loudly enough to be heard above the other voices in the small space. I am not sure if he really remembers me or not, and who could blame him? He has been teaching roomfulls of students for longer than we have been married.
"I am thinking about retiring," Mr. Kredit confesses.
"Oh, no!" I say. "Not yet!" And then I remember how old I am and wonder how old he must be. I sincerely hope that more students will be able to benefit from his teaching in the years to come.
We make our way to the car and drive the few blocks home. We will have 'Coffee', the traditional time of visiting with extended family over hot cups of coffee (or tea) and sweet cookies (or cake). The family circle is smaller, a visible reminder of grandparents and aunts and uncles who have gone Home before us. There is a sadness in this, but we are not without comfort:
We do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus...*
After all, Sunday mornings are for remembering and rejoicing in the Resurrection, are they not?
*1 Thessalonians 4:13-14
The day has finally arrived. We have traveled over 6000 miles by taxi cab, prop plane, Airbus 340 and car to attend this wedding.
We befriended The Groom when he was pursuing graduate studies at our local university in San Diego. I was a volunteer tutor/mentor to international students who desired an American friend to help them adjust to the new culture and language. Already fluent in English, The Groom became more like a German son to us, and during his time in California we were also pleased to host his parents and sister on their visits. Years later, when he became engaged, he gave us six month's notice to plan and prepare for a trip to Europe to attend their wedding.
And this is the day. The Groom is all smiles and The Bride radiant in her white gown, a lovely splash of apple-red shawl gracing her shoulders. When I compliment them on this special touch, The Groom confides that it is a last minute sort of thing, a recognition of the chilly day.
And it is chilly. It was raining in Munich when our plane touched down two days ago. The young man at the Hertz counter greeted us with the news that they had run out of the small (i.e. cheap) rentals and he was giving us a complimentary upgrade to a larger station wagon. Ron breathed a sigh of relief and bent to my ear, confiding that he had worried our three large suitcases, two backpacks and a purse wouldn't have fit in the car he had actually reserved.
The drive through Germany to the Italian Alps is delightful, even in our sleep-deprived state. Everything is so green, a color I have been sorely missing in California during three years of severe drought. The mountain road is narrow and twisting, but not heavily traveled. I am doing fine until - to Ron's delight and my dismay - it begins snowing. Within minutes, it seems, everything turns white before our eyes. This little traction warning light on the dash comes on, alternating between yellow and red. I have never seen one of these before.
"What does that light mean?" I ask as I brace myself for impact or something worse, like sliding over the steep edge just outside my window.
"I don't know," National Asset replies.
"How can you not know?" A ridiculous question, I recognize, even as it slips from my tired brain through my lips. What can I say. Sudden snow storms in unfamiliar mountains on very narrow roads tend to rattle me.
But the Asset is loving it. I can see it on his face.
Eventually we enter a very long tunnel. The Germans seem to prefer these to roads that follow the contours of the land, winding around and up and down hills and mountains. When we finally exit on the other side, the roads are clearer. My anxiety subsides.
A small group of family and friends, about thirty in all, have gathered at an inn in the Dolomites for four days of eating and talking and hiking and sleeping and eating and talking some more. The wedding day begins crystal clear, the sun rising above the sharp peaks of snow covered alps. We ride with The Groom's parents to the church, a beautiful old cathedral.
"I must warn you, the seats are very uncomfortable," his father warns just before we enter. I think dangerous is more like it as I straddle the old, unmovable wooden kneeling bench running dead center through the pew. I grasp the seat in front of me and the back of the one I am to sit upon and hobble my awkward way to the end where I am grateful to sit down. I am not quite sure what I am supposed to do with my feet. Maybe this ungainly construction is designed to keep parishioners awake.
The liturgy is in German, of course. Music from a pipe organ, trumpets, and a mixed vocal quartet spill from the loft and resonate against the tall, ornate pillars, the painted ceiling and walls. The sheer beauty of sound and setting brings tears to my eyes.
I can follow the service program for the Mass (an actual pamphlet) fairly well. When it was our turn to sing the hymns (all 30 of us in this large, otherwise empty sanctuary) I am thankful for choir teachers who taught me to enjoy singing in other languages.
But... I am cold. So very, very cold. I am wearing two layers, thinking they would be adequate for a car ride and an indoor wedding. The Groom had talked in terms of 'the chapel,' so I hadn't anticipated a large, ancient, unheated church that is at best only 2 degrees above the freezing temperature outside. When something in the liturgy causes everyone to abruptly stand and reach across the aisle and pews to shake hands with everyone else, my fingers are ice picks. I do my best not to break a leg on the kneeling board while extending my blueish hand.
Pictures are taken outside after the ceremony, in the small courtyard that serves as a cemetery. Elaborate wrought iron crosses adorn closely spaced graves. The Groom's father tells us that since the space is so small and it has been used for so many centuries, the graves are reused. After 70 years the bones are removed, the name and birthdate are engraved in gold on the skull, and it is stored in another place. I marvel at this show of respect for those who have long since passed on.
We return to the hotel to celebrate. I begin to thaw, a round fireplace radiating heat from the center of the room as snacks and drinks are served. A projector screen is set up and some kind of quiz ensues, pitting the bride and groom in a contest of German economics, geography, history. Language flows around and over me, German, Italian, and occasionally a bit of English, an auditory flash, like the rotating beam of a lighthouse at night.
In the evening we are seated at the parents' end of a long, elegantly set table. The five course meal is served over the course of four hours, nearly every course attended by a specific wine. I am aware of the honor bestowed on me, seated here with the mothers and aunts, but none of them speak much English and they are shy about even trying to communicate with me. I scour my mind for bits of high-school German vocabulary to insert into predominantly English questions. They seem to appreciate the effort, but mostly I sit and observe.
Late at night there are more games and folk dancing in the fireside room. We feel honored to be included in this intimate celebration of The Groom's wedding but we grow tired. Jet lag and the effort of bridging language and culture catch up to us, and we slip quietly up to our room to rest.
