Transatlanticism

Not much time to sit and think these days and it gets to be a bit draining. Between momentary attempts to anticipate the future and fleeting advent reflections, there are glimpses of life a year ago, just as busy and hectic for entirely different reasons.

On this day, Erica was still doing homework for a masters degree, feverishly wrapping up the last of it. On the 12th, she dressed up in a funny cap, gown and hood, walked with some friends, and talked about going to Harvard for a doctorate on the way home. On the 13th, when we thought life couldn't be more exhausting, we got the phone call to change our lives. And we simultaneously think, "It's only been a year?" and "It's been a year already!"

These days the moments when we're saddest, the kid is his happiest. The optimist of the family, so easy-going, so up for anything, so ready for adventure. When we heavily explain the plans for yet another time, just for preparation's sake, he nods with ease and agrees, "Sure!" No sweat. It's these moments I'm most grateful for this gift we could not even imagine, and grateful to be reminded again by his middle name that, "God is with us."

Trying to picture the future is getting increasingly difficult. We've talked about this move in theoretical terms for six years. Putting it into action is another story. And as it becomes more real it seems to become harder to understand. "Day at a time" is a frustrating but necessary cliche.

And then there's this letter found this morning, the first transatlantic piece of airmail in 1919. "Just a hurried line." One of the most heard phrases in conversation lately is, "Well, these days you have email, Facebook, Skype." Yes and true, but both blessings and curses are hidden there. There's something meaningful and magical in a belabored, intentional, handwritten note that had to fly across the ocean. On Skype you can only see hugs without giving and receiving them.

I forget who was telling me the story, and I even forget the story now. Something about a married couple becoming missionaries back then, leaving the ship in a small dinghy, rowing to Africa with their small trunk of possessions. Yes, times have changed, for better or worse.

But stories like those make me feel a little less crazy, like I'm somehow joining a rich heritage of transatlantic seafarers with something bigger on their minds. And then I stop and wonder if that actually makes me more crazy.

Maybe schizophrenia is the best way to describe all this.