I am writing this on Wednesday, August 8, 2018.  The 48th. Anniversary of our marriage.  Mine and Aina Kaire’s.  Each year on that date the memory of that first sighting visits and delights my mind.  You see, I am by nature shy, and for whatever reason think less of myself that would normally be called healthy.  At least that’s how I see it in retrospect.  I saw her this way when my friend and I stopped at his cousin’s house in Kalamazoo, Michigan to pick something up.

My friend went into the house.  When he came out so did she.  “Who is that?” I asked him.  “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!”  “Oh,” he said.  “Her name is Aina Kaire, she is my cousin’s girlfriend.”  “Lucky cousin,” I remember saying.

The next time I saw her several years later was in a sculpture class at the University.  Being classmates as we were we got to know one another.  We worked on projects together and became friends.  She graduated and took her first job as an art teacher in Albion, Michigan.  I moved to Cleveland, Ohio and eventually was sent to Vietnam for 13 months.

When I returned from Vietnam I was surprised to run into her again.  She worked at the Rexall Pharmacy near my parents home.  “What happened since we last saw each other?” I asked her.  “Oh, the engagement did not work out, and I needed a break from teaching so I am back at school for my Masters.”

“And I am back to finish my art degree,” I said.  “See you in school.”

Interestingly, and fortuitously, we once again found ourselves in sculpture class.  She, because that was her chosen major for her Masters in Art.  Me, because at least unconsciously, I was growing ever fonder of her company.  Knowing that a romance was out of the question, I settled for a friendship which in so many ways was sweeter still.  Since she was unattached (I guess they say “single” these days) I even, unsuccessfully, tried to set her up with some of my friends.

In January of 1970, my colleagues from my service in Vietnam organized a reunion.  I asked Aina to attend with me.  As my friend.  She agreed.  Something happened that evening which remains in the realm of mystery.  A wonder.  A grace moment.  On the way home from the reunion driving her 1966 Mustang we talked about how we would tell our parents that we are going to get married.

I will never forget the “heady” feeling of gratitude and unbelievable grace when I realized this is really happening.  To me.

When we got home it was time to organize and display my first watercolor exhibit.  We matted, framed and displayed all my current paintings.  At the opening of the show, we formally announced our engagement, our parents and friends congratulated us, I cried, and Aina poured the wine!

August 8, 1970.  Yes, sometimes dreams really do come true.

 

 

 

 

As a boy, he spent his summers on the shores of Lake Superior and it is there that he encountered God.  He invited us to visit this place in Minnesota a click away from Canada.  We talked, my friend and I under a starlit summer sky standing on a little footbridge over the creek that empties into that mighty lake.

He is by nature a quiet man so words are few but always important.  He speaks of his love for this place and then something strangely moving.  He says, “Pastor, no offense, but this is my church, it is here that I first encountered God.  When I die I want my ashes scattered here, this place is sacred.”  Slightly taken aback by his request I point out that I am 12 years his senior so perhaps he should be telling someone else.  “No,” he says, “promise me you will remember.”  “Of course,” I say, believing, thankfully, that I will never have to fulfill my friend’s request.

He was an engineer, an experienced fixed wing, and hot air balloon pilot, and a man of so many talents there was no end to what he knew how to do.  Most of all he was a husband and father.  His kindness spilled over to anyone fortunate enough to be a friend.  One of his friends was being treated for brain cancer and it was not certain how much time he had left.  My friend decided to visit him and take him bow hunting perhaps one last time.  It was an act of selfless kindness, the kind the world sorely needs.

He flew his plane to the North country and spent several beautiful fall days in the woods.  They got their deer, bonded their friendship deep, and on his 48th. birthday was flying home to a waiting family of his beloved wife and children 8 and 6 years old.  About midway from there to here, his plane developed engine trouble and he was forced to land in a cornfield.

The plane snapped in two and my friend died instantly.  Even as I write these words I don’t want them to be true.  The 12 years that have passed have not softened their sting.  After the service arrangements were made I traveled to the funeral home to be with the family for the visitation.  His wife and children sat with him alone and when they were ready I came into the room.

My friend is in the casket and his children curiously touch him and ask their mother questions.  “That’s not Daddy,” one of them says.  The other echoes, “No, it’s not Daddy.  Their mother answers, “Of course it is.”  Gently lifting his hand she says “See, this is where Daddy lost the tip of his finger long ago.  And Daddy is wearing his favorite flannel shirt.”

“It’s not Daddy,” they insist with the innocent wisdom that only children have.

In a moment that is nothing short of a miracle their mother smiles and says, “You are right.  It is not Daddy, it is Daddy’s cocoon.”

The children smile in unison, satisfied by that answer knowing that metamorphosis is a process of rebirth that repeats again and again, and the miracle is that there is no death involved, only change.  Their Daddy is alive and free as certainly as the butterflies they studied in their Prairie Crossing Charter School.

After the funeral, we stand in the very spot where my friend uttered those prophetic words about this, his sacred space, the place where he experienced the living presence of God.  And it was in that sacred space we lovingly scatter some of his ashes.

In the morning, as the sun bathes the chilly waters of the mighty Superior, his wife and children take a boat ride and scatter the rest of his ashes on the waters that he so often fished.  As the grains of his mortal being briefly float on the surface they shimmer like diamonds in the sun.  A fitting tribute to a man who lived his life as a testimony to selfless grace.  He practiced kindness in the way he lived, worked and loved.

I cannot see the water or the wood or the sun without his image on the canvass of my mind, and a longing that stirs within me saying, “It’s O.K., what was still is and always will be.”

One of the many gifts my friend gave me was a thrilling ride in his hot air balloon.  High enough to touch the sky, free to soar among the clouds unfettered by the weight of the earth and its cares. And afterward, a framed copy of the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta Prayer;

May the winds welcome you with softness.                                                                                May the sun bless you with its warm hands.                                                                              May you fly so high and so well that God                                                                                    joins you in laughter and sets you gently                                                                                  back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.

 

Thanks for joining me!