On sacred ground and listening to the still small voice

I’ve written before about one of my favorite sacred places, the grounds of the Wind Point Lighthouse in Racine, Wisconsin, my hometown.

I’ve had the pleasure of spending considerable time this weekend in the shadow of the lighthouse and meditating to the roar of the water crashing against the sand and rocks as the breeze blows and shore birds wheel overhead.

I am centered there.

My monkey mind quiets.

My soul stills.

”Be still and know.”

Water, as ever, serves as a reminder of my baptism and the fact that I am, always, a beloved child of God.

This lake, vast and ocean-like. Every time I am near I am led to pay homage and spend time in its presence.

I have been around the southwestern shores of Lake Michigan quite a bit these last few weeks.

First, with my friends Trevor, Joe and Don as we represented Man Up to Cancer at the American Society of Clinical Oncology annual meeting in Chicago.

I introduced the guys to “my Chicago” with the little bits of free time we had at our disposal. Amazing meals at Lou Manati’s, Harry Caray’s and Portillo’s.

Most enjoyable, perhaps, was the nighttime architectural boat tour, a 90-minute cruise up the Chicago River and then out to the “playpen” of the city’s harbor, where we saw the city’s skyline from the water.

I feel grounded on this water. On this lake.

I returned to the lake, and my hometown, this weekend to celebrate my niece, Cloey’s, high school graduation.

My brother, Tim, and I also took in a Brewer’s game from a luxury suite as part of his company’s 90th anniversary employee appreciation party.

The Brew Crew won, which made the event even sweeter. I’m not a huge sports fan, but I like taking in the occasional baseball game.

Today Tim hosted the family, well his people, my mom and me, for a bratwurst cookout.

In between there have been breakfasts with mom, and family friends, Jon and Pat. And John and Sherry. And Debbie. Different groupings over various forms of meals.

I also took in a late breakfast with my friend and fellow colorectal cancer warrior, Nathan.

Two evenings in a row, after the rush of activity was over, I gave in to the pull of the lighthouse and the lake.

My mind flooded with memories.

The Bicentennial fireworks display in 1976, when I swear there were patriotic photos projected against the clouds of smoke created by the fireworks.

Cold March evenings on North Pier fishing for smelt, where the dads would drink beer as they dropped giant square nets into the water to catch piles of small fish that are delicious when beer battered.

Biting the head off a live smelt was a rite of passage for first-time young fishermen back in the day.

My Uncle Bob, my mom’s uncle, took us out on his boat to fish for salmon.

And Salmon-A-Rama, the summer festival celebrating all things salmon. The best part of the festival: fried cheese curds sold to raise funds for the Kiwanis Club.

The shimmer of the setting sun was especially beautiful Saturday night, casting the lighthouse in a slight orange glow.

I took a picture and sent it to Ryan.

You know your best friend knows you well when he texts back: “Your favorite place!”

I hope I’ll get to show Ryan the lighthouse someday.

And Trevor, Don and Joe. If there had been more time during ASCO…

In the meantime…

As I approached one of the benches overlooking the lake in front of the lighthouse, a young dad was celebrating Father’s Day with his family. A picnic on the lighthouse grounds.

A sweet sight.

I had just come from an afternoon with my family.

Boisterous laughter. Cutting up. Loud conversation. Tasty food.

Had he lived, my dad would be 82 this year. And he would have been smack in the middle of the conversation.

Cutting up with his kids. Proud of the grandchildren he never lived to meet.

His legacy.

Imperfect but also beautiful.

I wish he could have lived to meet the people important to me.

The lovely Sarah, of course. God he would have loved her for her sweet, giving, loving, compassionate spirit. And her laugh, a sweet giggle that makes her eyes twinkle.

I think he would have loved Ryan, too, who likes to build things with his hands like dad did.

I think he would be proud of the work I’m doing as a cancer advocate, especially for men’s mental health in the face of their illness. He would have loved Trevor, Don and Joe.

I felt dad’s presence this afternoon.

And again at the lighthouse tonight.

As I sat listening to the waves and the wind, and watching the birds I heard a voice tell me I needed to do something.

Go to the cemetery.

It was getting late I’d be racing the light, but I listened to the voice.

I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some flowers.

As I checked out, I noticed the music being piped through the store.

My hands to God, it was Mike + The Mechanics’, “The Living Years,” the 1988 song about a father and son who missed the opportunity to resolve their differences because the father dies.

“Crumpled bits of paper/filled with imperfect thought/Stilted conversation/I’m afraid that’s all we got”

I really do wish I could have told him in the living years.

As if it couldn’t get more Hallmark movie-like, as I headed out to my car, a young woman wished me, “Happy Father’s Day, if you are one!”

”I’m not,” I said, “but I’m going to see mine.”

There is a vase in dad’s headstone but it’s obviously been a long time since it was pulled out.

I didn’t know the vase was there until mom told me the other day.

I got on my knees and scraped the mud from around the circular handle, twisted it hard and pulled the vase out.

The flowers looked beautiful.

No less than dad deserved.

I wish we could sit side-by-side on that bench at the lighthouse.

So much to talk about.

Grace for each other.

Gratitude for the lives we have lived, and the lives we’ve missed.

And love. So much love.

Thanks be to God.