MARK 6

For the longest time, Charlie-Bear always relished sitting on the porch from the early morning until the late afternoon when the sun grew too hot for man and beast. For Charlie, life was good when there was a cool summer breeze, a shady porch, chirping birds, and occasional deer crossing the yard. He watched the comings and goings in our neighborhood but rarely moved a paw from his prized spot.

Charlie has been showing his age lately. Sure, we still take our walks, but we cut them shorter now since his legs are not quite as energetic as they used to be. When we come home, he slurps water from his bowl and heads to his bed inside to rest. I like to keep him outside, though. I want to remind him how much he loved sitting out here in the past. His joints no longer allow him to lie down easily, so Charlie paces across the porch and wanders down and back along the sidewalk, looking for something or just standing guard. 

I grow sad and frustrated watching him endlessly walk to and fro, eventually letting him inside. I can relate to how he is feeling. It is like being on high alert when you anticipate some forthcoming event that never seems to arrive. You keep going, unsure about what is driving you, until you just need to stop. Unfortunately, this is how I spent most of my life.

I could barely keep my head above water when I started teaching in North Carolina. Like many people, I wanted to ensure I was doing everything and anything to succeed in my career. I was tired, but I managed to power through attending training meetings, preparing seven different classes, meeting hundreds of new people, and setting up my classroom from scratch. To say I was drowning is an understatement, but I did it all with a smile on my face and occasional hidden tears on my pillow. 

At the time, I found some misguided joy in this daily marathon. My efforts, numerous activities, countless hours, and little personal time for rest and reflection must be synonymous with what it means to be an outstanding and effective teacher. Undoubtedly, I thought, a person would need a blind dedication to the never-ending grind and continual personal sacrifice to experience success in any career. I am unsure where I developed this attitude, but I may have blurred a necessary line between professional success and personal well-being.

The next thirty-three years offered numerous subtle and more than enough brutal reminders that life offered more than I was asking. I learned the hard way that regardless of whether I arrived at school an hour before it opened and left hours after the final bell, work would always remain. With age came wisdom as I learned to heed the messages emanating from the back of my mind, from deep within my heart, and from the soles of my aching feet.

I went to mass at Saint Michael Parish a couple of weekends ago. Father Luis has been taking time to visit Mom lately here at home. The three of us have spent some wonderful Friday afternoons talking about the more treasured aspects of life, like family and God. Mom has been sending him on his way with coffee cake and cookies recently, so I was happy to see that he was celebrating mass. 

To be fully transparent, I disappear into my thoughts during most homilies. I want to listen from beginning to end, but unfaltering attention is challenging sometimes. I have so much on my mind, so I grant myself a little grace. However, this afternoon was different, as Father Luis started on the subject of that day's Gospel: rest.

Father Luis referenced Chapter 6 in The Gospel of Mark. The Apostles are worn out from the pressures of their ministry, tiring from large crowds of people and meeting their needs. Father Luis thoughtfully explained how they felt and related it to how many of us feel today. We are always on the go and seldom listen to what our bodies tell us about the need to rest. He referred to verse 31 and what Jesus said to His Disciples: "Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while."

The other morning, as I was drinking coffee and welcoming the new day, Charlie sat beside me. The rear of his body was already planted, tired from an early-morning walk, but Charlie could not make those front legs commit to relaxing. He fixed his legs straight before him as a child would push away a plate of unwanted food. I crawled onto the porch beside him, whispering, "Charlie, relax. Relax. Shhhhhh." Charlie-Bear sighed, then slowly lowered himself to the floor, finally putting his head down and closing his eyes for a nice early morning nap.

Back in my chair, I sipped the last cooling bits of my coffee and picked up my book where I had left off. Occasionally, I looked out into the uncut yard with its patches of dry grass from the summer drought, then over at my soundly sleeping dog whose legs ran in some faraway meadow. My opened calendar sat on the table next to me. My weekly things-to-do list was long, but I could push several items to the following week. This moment won't last forever.

Charlie-Bear resting.

Father Luis and Mom hanging out.

U.S. HIGHWAY 264

A hard rain pounded down on my Dodge Shadow as we drove a long stretch of U.S. Highway 264 in Eastern North Carolina. Sheet upon sheet of warm southern rain slapped the windshield, the wipers frantically sweeping back and forth in a futile attempt to provide even a few seconds of visibility. The numerous vehicles traveling the highway with me crept along blindly, all of us searching for a safe place to stop.

I could see the blurry taillights in front of me as drivers slowly navigated their way to the safety of the shoulder. The dark shadow of a large overpass had appeared through the heavy drops and offered shelter for those lucky to park under it. The rest of us gratefully created a community of travelers content to wait out the storm on the side of the road even though the storm continued to pelt us with unending rain.

I took a deep breath and sighed in relief as I parked the car. I looked over at my mother, who rode shotgun on my trip to Wilson, North Carolina, for my interview at Ralph L. Fike High School the next day. She made the sign of the cross and thanked me for pulling over. I did the same, praying that the water would not generate a flood that would wash us away.

We watched brave souls in their cars slowly inch past us into a dark, rainy horizon. Their red brake lights periodically flashed as if sending a distress message in Morse code. Eventually, those flashes faded and disappeared as they moved just yards down the road.

We passed the time ourselves straightening up the car. Before folding the unfoldable AAA paper map, I traced the highlighted path to see how far we had traveled that day. Occasionally, I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if the storm had subsided behind us, but I only found darkness and the blurred yellow headlights of other cars as the rainwater washed down my rear window.

After what seemed to be an eternity of rainfall, the gathering of dark clouds drifted off, carrying its power and majesty away from U.S. 264, where it would slowly dissipate into nothingness. Windshield wipers began sweeping off the dwindling remnants of rain as cars slowly rejoined the road to their destinations.

Mom and I continued our trek towards Wilson, enjoying the ever-changing scenery beneath the reemerging light of the southern sun. Behind us were the snaking turns through the mountains of West Virginia and Virginia and the growing developments along a busy Interstate 40 from Winston-Salem to the outskirts of Raleigh. After nine adventurous hours of map-referencing, an occasional missed exit or two, and numerous rest area stops, we had made it to the proverbial home stretch.

The landscape settled into a double-laned highway whose edges bordered a beautiful expanse of flat farmlands interspersed among sections of untouched groups of tall, thin pines whose tips touched the blue sky. Rows of crepe myrtles and spent daylilies separated the east and west sides of the highway, which shot forward in a straight line through a late afternoon sun that knew nothing of the storm that rested here a short time ago.

I am amazed that this memory has remained with me for over 30 years. Anxious anticipation and desperate indecision filled my first journey along U.S. 264. Two years after graduating from West Liberty State College, I was excited about landing my first teaching job, yet moving 500 miles away made this a difficult choice. The moment left a bittersweet indelible mark, not of a completed story but of one chapter in a life full of enduring memories like this.

Wonder, excitement, and anticipation surrounding a new chapter in life can accompany the subtle discomfort of change, which can take the form of loss, fear, and regret. Disparate emotions converge to form imperfect storms that can slow us to a stop, cleanse us, refresh us, and then send us on our way, perhaps even bring us back again.