Get Out Of The Boat
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
A Story to Live By: "Walking on Water"
Shining Moments: "Angels in Haunted Places" by Richard Gentzler
Good Stories: "Beautiful Feet" by John Sumwalt
Scrap Pile: "Get Out of the Boat" by Pamela J. Tinnin
What's Up This Week
The story of Jesus walking on water in this Sunday's Gospel lesson is one of the most well-known stories in the scriptures, though perhaps one of the most misunderstood. Everyone knows what you mean when you say of someone, "He thinks he can walk on water." The story of the monk who could walk on water in this week's Story to Live By is a good sermon starter for a reflection on this passage. Pamela Tinnin's wonderful personal story "Get Out of the Boat" in the Scrap Pile will take the congregation deep into the meaning of the story. Peter may have begun to sink after his initial faith step, but he was the only one who got out of the boat. That first step of faith is no small thing. John's touching story about Earl Bentner's "Beautiful Feet" in Good Stories is another example of someone who was willing to get out of the boat at great risk to his own personal safety. Be forewarned -- this is a two-, perhaps three-kleenex story, especially for the World War II generation that remembers Pearl Harbor.
A Story to Live By
Walking on Water
And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea.
Matthew 14:25
There was a disciple who thought he could improve his chances of enlightenment by seeking it on his own, so he bid farewell to his brothers in the monastery, took the ferry across the river, and went to live in a cave high in the hills all by himself. He meditated there non-stop for 25 years. At the end of that time, he emerged from the cave, stretched his arms above his head like a man waking from a long sleep, and made his way down to the river.
Without even stopping to test the temperature first, he stepped out on the water and proceeded to walk across it toward the monastery he had left 25 years before. Two monks who were doing their laundry that morning saw him coming across the river. "Who is that?" one of them asked.
The other replied: "That is the old man who has spent 25 years meditating in a cave. Now look at him -- he can walk on water!"
"What a pity," said the first monk. "The ferry only costs a quarter."
**************
Mark Twain, when he visited the Holy Land, wished to take the pilgrimage trip on the Sea of Galilee. When he found out how much it cost, he apparently said: "No wonder Jesus walked."
Shining Moments
Angels in Haunted Places
by Richard Gentzler
And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, "It is a ghost!" And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid."
Matthew 14:25-27
My interest in angels began rather abruptly one sunny summer afternoon while visiting Hershey Park in Hershey, Pennsylvania. "Let's go into the haunted funhouse," I suggested gleefully. Although I had never been in a "haunted" funhouse before, the bright lights of the marquee intrigued me. "No," came the quick response. None of my family members, including my parents, aunts and uncles, and grandparents, had any desire to enter a haunted funhouse. I whined and pleaded with them to let me go in by myself. "No, you're too young," they retorted. "I'm big enough to go by myself," I implored. And like many a young boy, I pestered them until they finally gave in.
Perhaps you have experienced the joys and delights of a haunted funhouse. I didn't. This funhouse was not fun at all. At seven years of age, I found the funhouse dark and scary. When I entered through the doorway, I could see nothing -- nothing, that is, except pitch-blackness. Suddenly the door shut and I stood alone inside. I tried taking several steps, but I could not see a thing. My eyes had not yet adjusted from the bright daylight to the complete and utter darkness of the room. My heart started racing; I was overcome with great fear. I could not find my way through the dark maze. I was alone and very frightened. Soon I began to whimper. My eyes filled with tears and I started crying uncontrollably. I couldn't see; I couldn't move -- I was frozen in utter darkness.
Then an angel appeared. Not that I could see the angel, but a hand reached out and grabbed my hand. The angel whispered assuringly, "Don't cry, little boy, everything will be all right." And it was. The angel's voice was so reassuring and comforting that I quickly stopped crying. And before I knew it, the angel led me through the dark maze of the tortuous "fun"-house.
When we exited the building, I wiped the tears from my eyes. The angel, still holding my hand and walking next to me, was a teenage girl. She was a stranger to me, but she was my angel. She had led me safely through the unknown, and she reassured me with her voice and gentle touch. Angels come in all sizes and ages and places. Sometimes angels even come to little boys in dark, fearful, haunted funhouses.
Richard (Rick) Gentzler Jr. is director of the Center on Aging and Older Adult Ministries for the General Board of Discipleship of the United Methodist Church. A nationally recognized speaker, teacher, and seminar leader, he is the author of numerous books, including The Graying of the Church. Gentzler publishes the Center Sage newsletter, and he recently co-produced Rock of Ages, a large-print song and worship book. The 2003 recipient of the National Interfaith Coalition on Aging's "Spirituality and Aging" award, Dr. Gentzler is a clergy member of the Central Pennsylvania Conference of the United Methodist Church.
Good Stories
Beautiful Feet
by John Sumwalt
As it is written, "How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!"
Romans 10:15b [Paul is quoting Isaiah 52:7a]
Earl Bentner had beautiful feet. They were big, too. It was the first thing people noticed about him when he was a baby. "Look at those feet," they would say. "He's going to wear size 16 shoes." And then, of course, they wanted to touch them. Baby Earl got very tired of people pulling at this toes.
It became worse as Earl grew older. His feet not only got bigger, they became more and more beautiful. They were his most noticeable feature. Like some people have stick-out ears or a prominent nose, Earl had big, beautiful feet. There was just something about them. No one could resist those long, delicate toes and supple arches -- and heels that were a study in physiological perfection. People noticed them and commented on them like they would comment on the hands of a fine pianist. They were, well, beautiful.
But they were also a constant source of embarrassment to Earl, especially during those awkward teenage years. Everywhere he went people would say, "Show us your feet, Earl." It didn't matter whether it was winter or summer. And Earl would always oblige, but inside he felt like some kind of freak, and he began to harbor feelings of resentment, although he did kind of enjoy it when the girls caressed his arches.
He became something of a celebrity. The local newspaper ran a front page article one year. Pictures of Earl's feet were seen all over the country. Earl reveled in all the attention at first, but after a while the resentment returned and he began to wish that he had been born with ordinary feet.
The low point in Earl's life occurred when he failed his Army physical. The year was 1941. Earl had just graduated from high school. The whole country was gearing up for the war. Earl and several of his classmates received their draft notices at the same time. They were all excited as they rode the bus into the city. They talked about sticking together after boot camp. Everyone passed the physical but Earl. The doctor took one look at his feet and said, "Too big! The army doesn't have any shoes that big." He wrote something in red on the bottom of Earl's form and told him to go home.
Earl moped around for several weeks before he decided that what he needed to do was to get out of town and find some kind of work. He took a job at a sawmill in a small village up in the mountains. It was hard work, but it helped him forget about his disappointment and nobody paid any attention to his feet. He just happened to be in the village store on that Saturday evening, December 6, when the mountain was hit with one of the worst blizzards that anyone could remember. He and several other men from the mill were stranded there all night. The snow was so deep on the road and the winds so fierce that there was no way that any of them could have left the store. The storm was still raging the next morning when the word came about the attack on Pearl Harbor. They all huddled around the radio and listened in horror as the announcer described the utter devastation inflicted on the U.S. fleet by the Japanese bombers. The picture grew worse and worse as the reports kept coming in all day long. More than 2,000 U.S. military personnel killed, 80 naval aircraft and 97 army planes destroyed, and 19 ships sunk, including the battleships West Virginia, Oklahoma, Utah, and Arizona.
"Isn't Jimmy Everson on the Arizona?" It was old Burt Meeker, the owner of the store who spoke. "Yep, I believe he is," he said in answer to his own question. "His brother Jack is in the army down at Fort Dix, but I remember their dad saying that Jimmy was on the Arizona over in Pearl. Sam and Edith must be worried sick."
It was two days later when the store phone rang, the only phone on the mountain. Everyone was still there. The blizzard had stopped, but the snow was 15 feet deep and the county crews had only begun to clear the roads. The conversation stopped as Burt picked up the phone. When he hung up they knew from what they had been able to hear of his side of the conversation that Jimmy Everson was all right and that he wanted them to get word to his folks.
"I'll go," Earl said immediately. "Lend me your snowshoes, Burt, and I'll follow the road."
"No, you won't," Burt declared. "It's more than two miles up to the Everson place. If that wind comes up again you would be lost in five minutes."
"I have to go. I know how my folks would feel if it was me on that ship."
They all tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. About two hours later, and only a half mile up the road, he wished that he had. The harder the wind blew, the more difficult it became to follow the road. Something made him keep going. At the end of the sixth hour it was beginning to get dark and he was nearly exhausted. He wanted to lie down in the snow and rest for a while, but he knew enough to keep himself moving. Then, suddenly, there was a light in front of him and he heard a voice calling out over the wind, "Over here." He struggled toward the light and the voice. Sam and Edith Everson caught him as he stumbled onto the porch. They helped him onto a stool by the door and waited for him to catch his breath. Earl could see the fear that was in their eyes. Would it be good news or bad? As soon as he was able to speak he blurted out the words they had been waiting to hear: "Jimmy called. He's okay."
Edith burst into tears and Sam grabbed ahold of her and hugged her tight. Then they went after Earl. He thought Edith never was going to stop kissing him.
"Why are we standing out here in the cold? Come on inside," Sam said. "Come over here and warm yourself by the fire. Make yourself at home. Put your feet up."
Scrap Pile
Get Out of the Boat
by Pamela J. Tinnin
He said "come." So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus.
Matthew 14:29
When my father retired from the Navy, we moved to a small fishing and logging town on the southern Oregon coast. The coastline along that part of the state is as beautiful as any I've seen. It is also extremely dangerous -- the shore crops away sharply and the water is broken by rocky outcroppings, some clearly visible while others lie hidden beneath the waves.
Every few years a fishing boat was lost in the storms that swept in off the Pacific, until finally the U.S. Coast Guard opened a station there. When I was a senior in high school, I saw one of their rescue efforts. I was standing on the shore, watching through binoculars while the wind whipped my hair and the rain came in dark sheets and the Coast Guard station alarm blared behind me. Within minutes after the siren had sounded, the dock was lined with townspeople, watching the scene with anxious eyes -- wives and parents and friends, clasping hands, holding each other up, sending up prayers.
The rescuers didn't have a helicopter, just a small boat of their own. The little boat struggled to find its way through waves that topped out at 30 and 40 feet, sliding down and down, then rising up and up on the crest.
Bandon was a small town, and I knew most of the fishermen. The boat in trouble was the Cindy Kay with five men aboard, one of them a neighbor of ours, Lawrence Ashton, just five or six years older than I was. I'd had a crush on him since junior high, but his age, wild reputation, and my parents kept me from ever pursuing that interest.
The Cindy Kay was breaking up, her hull tearing into pieces as the wind tossed her against the rocks. As I watched, my hands clenching the binoculars, I saw a man swept overboard and disappear, almost as if he'd never been there. I could see another man standing at the rail, his yellow slicker bright against the dark sky. He was looking at the water, searching for the man who'd gone under. Then he tore off the slicker and jumped, all in one motion, and he too disappeared beneath the waves.
It wasn't until later I learned the man who jumped was Lawrence Ashton, the kid who'd been nothing but trouble since I'd known him. But on that day, when Lawrence pulled Mickey Andrews up from the deep, he forever became a hero.
I was 17 standing there in the middle of that storm when the Coast Guard vessel brought in all five survivors. I remember Lawrence coming down the walkway, a gray blanket around his shoulders, his blond hair wet against his head. Word came that he had been the one to jump into the water, the one who saved Mickey. All of us waiting there on the dock cheered and cheered for him, and the reporter from Channel 12 stopped him and asked how it felt to be a hero. Lawrence just shook his head and blinked at the lights, then moved on. That was the last time I saw him until three years ago when I was back there for my high school reunion.
In the last few years, something strange has happened. People who've known me all my life, people who knew me as a clumsy kid, as a rebellious teenager, as a struggling young adult -- when they hear I'm a minister, they tell me things like a confession or something, like they've forgotten I'm the same old Pam I always was.
Lawrence was no exception. I ran into him at the grocery store. Even with gray hair and a bit of extra around the middle, he still has that wild look in his eye and that teasing smile. When I told him I was a minister, he laughed and said, "Now that's crazy." He told me he had his own fishing boat with his three boys. We talked a while about families and work and how time goes so fast.
I started to say good-bye, then I turned back and said, "Lawrence, I was there on the dock that day -- that was something. You were a hero."
"Nah," he said, "I'm no hero. I didn't want to get off that boat. It was breaking up fast, but we knew the Coast Guard was comin' and if we just hung on, we'd make it."
"So what made you do it?" I asked.
"I don't know exactly," he answered and shook his head. He didn't look at me while he talked, his eyes on the produce man stacking oranges in a big pyramid.
"I kept thinkin' about Mickey's wife and how they had a little kid and another on the way; how there wasn't nobody else to do it but me. Next thing I knew I was in the water, so cold and so dark I couldn't see a thing. I looked up at the boat once, then kicked hard and headed down into the darkness. I was choking for air and I almost gave up when I saw his face, all white and dead-looking. I grabbed for his hair and hung on. When I looked up there was nothin' but black water and I remember thinking, 'Jesus, help us.' Help us -- me, who'd never prayed in my life. Then a light come on up there by the boat, a big circle of light. I kept hold of him, and swam for that light. Funny thing," he said and laughed, "I didn't even like Mickey."
Then he turned back to me and smiled. "You know, my life's not much to brag on. I'm no church man, never was. Never could stand to sit still that long. I still drink too much most Saturday nights. Been divorced twice. And I'm sure no hero. But at least I got that one thing, that one time when I did what was right, scared as I was. Maybe that counts for something, huh?"
His face was flushed and his eyes slid past mine. Perhaps he was seeking some kind of absolution, but I failed to offer him anything but the usual polite things you say when you meet someone from your past. "Well, good to see you... Let's stay in touch... Come on by and meet the family." Then we shook hands and walked away.
This past week, thinking about the story in Matthew, I've wished I could see Lawrence and tell him what I should have told him that night, that it's our whole life that counts for something, not just those big moments, those times when we have to risk everything. Certainly those times may come into our lives. But most of our days will be filled with those small moments, those small decisions, the ones that sometimes scare us worse than the big ones.
Pamela J. Tinnin is pastor of Guerneville Community Church (United Church of Christ) in Guerneville, California. Pamela has written stories for all three of the books in the Vision series. She is also a co-author of Bit Players In The Big Play (CSS Publishing Company).
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StoryShare, August 7, 2005, issue.
Copyright 2005 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
What's Up This Week
A Story to Live By: "Walking on Water"
Shining Moments: "Angels in Haunted Places" by Richard Gentzler
Good Stories: "Beautiful Feet" by John Sumwalt
Scrap Pile: "Get Out of the Boat" by Pamela J. Tinnin
What's Up This Week
The story of Jesus walking on water in this Sunday's Gospel lesson is one of the most well-known stories in the scriptures, though perhaps one of the most misunderstood. Everyone knows what you mean when you say of someone, "He thinks he can walk on water." The story of the monk who could walk on water in this week's Story to Live By is a good sermon starter for a reflection on this passage. Pamela Tinnin's wonderful personal story "Get Out of the Boat" in the Scrap Pile will take the congregation deep into the meaning of the story. Peter may have begun to sink after his initial faith step, but he was the only one who got out of the boat. That first step of faith is no small thing. John's touching story about Earl Bentner's "Beautiful Feet" in Good Stories is another example of someone who was willing to get out of the boat at great risk to his own personal safety. Be forewarned -- this is a two-, perhaps three-kleenex story, especially for the World War II generation that remembers Pearl Harbor.
A Story to Live By
Walking on Water
And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea.
Matthew 14:25
There was a disciple who thought he could improve his chances of enlightenment by seeking it on his own, so he bid farewell to his brothers in the monastery, took the ferry across the river, and went to live in a cave high in the hills all by himself. He meditated there non-stop for 25 years. At the end of that time, he emerged from the cave, stretched his arms above his head like a man waking from a long sleep, and made his way down to the river.
Without even stopping to test the temperature first, he stepped out on the water and proceeded to walk across it toward the monastery he had left 25 years before. Two monks who were doing their laundry that morning saw him coming across the river. "Who is that?" one of them asked.
The other replied: "That is the old man who has spent 25 years meditating in a cave. Now look at him -- he can walk on water!"
"What a pity," said the first monk. "The ferry only costs a quarter."
**************
Mark Twain, when he visited the Holy Land, wished to take the pilgrimage trip on the Sea of Galilee. When he found out how much it cost, he apparently said: "No wonder Jesus walked."
Shining Moments
Angels in Haunted Places
by Richard Gentzler
And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, "It is a ghost!" And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid."
Matthew 14:25-27
My interest in angels began rather abruptly one sunny summer afternoon while visiting Hershey Park in Hershey, Pennsylvania. "Let's go into the haunted funhouse," I suggested gleefully. Although I had never been in a "haunted" funhouse before, the bright lights of the marquee intrigued me. "No," came the quick response. None of my family members, including my parents, aunts and uncles, and grandparents, had any desire to enter a haunted funhouse. I whined and pleaded with them to let me go in by myself. "No, you're too young," they retorted. "I'm big enough to go by myself," I implored. And like many a young boy, I pestered them until they finally gave in.
Perhaps you have experienced the joys and delights of a haunted funhouse. I didn't. This funhouse was not fun at all. At seven years of age, I found the funhouse dark and scary. When I entered through the doorway, I could see nothing -- nothing, that is, except pitch-blackness. Suddenly the door shut and I stood alone inside. I tried taking several steps, but I could not see a thing. My eyes had not yet adjusted from the bright daylight to the complete and utter darkness of the room. My heart started racing; I was overcome with great fear. I could not find my way through the dark maze. I was alone and very frightened. Soon I began to whimper. My eyes filled with tears and I started crying uncontrollably. I couldn't see; I couldn't move -- I was frozen in utter darkness.
Then an angel appeared. Not that I could see the angel, but a hand reached out and grabbed my hand. The angel whispered assuringly, "Don't cry, little boy, everything will be all right." And it was. The angel's voice was so reassuring and comforting that I quickly stopped crying. And before I knew it, the angel led me through the dark maze of the tortuous "fun"-house.
When we exited the building, I wiped the tears from my eyes. The angel, still holding my hand and walking next to me, was a teenage girl. She was a stranger to me, but she was my angel. She had led me safely through the unknown, and she reassured me with her voice and gentle touch. Angels come in all sizes and ages and places. Sometimes angels even come to little boys in dark, fearful, haunted funhouses.
Richard (Rick) Gentzler Jr. is director of the Center on Aging and Older Adult Ministries for the General Board of Discipleship of the United Methodist Church. A nationally recognized speaker, teacher, and seminar leader, he is the author of numerous books, including The Graying of the Church. Gentzler publishes the Center Sage newsletter, and he recently co-produced Rock of Ages, a large-print song and worship book. The 2003 recipient of the National Interfaith Coalition on Aging's "Spirituality and Aging" award, Dr. Gentzler is a clergy member of the Central Pennsylvania Conference of the United Methodist Church.
Good Stories
Beautiful Feet
by John Sumwalt
As it is written, "How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!"
Romans 10:15b [Paul is quoting Isaiah 52:7a]
Earl Bentner had beautiful feet. They were big, too. It was the first thing people noticed about him when he was a baby. "Look at those feet," they would say. "He's going to wear size 16 shoes." And then, of course, they wanted to touch them. Baby Earl got very tired of people pulling at this toes.
It became worse as Earl grew older. His feet not only got bigger, they became more and more beautiful. They were his most noticeable feature. Like some people have stick-out ears or a prominent nose, Earl had big, beautiful feet. There was just something about them. No one could resist those long, delicate toes and supple arches -- and heels that were a study in physiological perfection. People noticed them and commented on them like they would comment on the hands of a fine pianist. They were, well, beautiful.
But they were also a constant source of embarrassment to Earl, especially during those awkward teenage years. Everywhere he went people would say, "Show us your feet, Earl." It didn't matter whether it was winter or summer. And Earl would always oblige, but inside he felt like some kind of freak, and he began to harbor feelings of resentment, although he did kind of enjoy it when the girls caressed his arches.
He became something of a celebrity. The local newspaper ran a front page article one year. Pictures of Earl's feet were seen all over the country. Earl reveled in all the attention at first, but after a while the resentment returned and he began to wish that he had been born with ordinary feet.
The low point in Earl's life occurred when he failed his Army physical. The year was 1941. Earl had just graduated from high school. The whole country was gearing up for the war. Earl and several of his classmates received their draft notices at the same time. They were all excited as they rode the bus into the city. They talked about sticking together after boot camp. Everyone passed the physical but Earl. The doctor took one look at his feet and said, "Too big! The army doesn't have any shoes that big." He wrote something in red on the bottom of Earl's form and told him to go home.
Earl moped around for several weeks before he decided that what he needed to do was to get out of town and find some kind of work. He took a job at a sawmill in a small village up in the mountains. It was hard work, but it helped him forget about his disappointment and nobody paid any attention to his feet. He just happened to be in the village store on that Saturday evening, December 6, when the mountain was hit with one of the worst blizzards that anyone could remember. He and several other men from the mill were stranded there all night. The snow was so deep on the road and the winds so fierce that there was no way that any of them could have left the store. The storm was still raging the next morning when the word came about the attack on Pearl Harbor. They all huddled around the radio and listened in horror as the announcer described the utter devastation inflicted on the U.S. fleet by the Japanese bombers. The picture grew worse and worse as the reports kept coming in all day long. More than 2,000 U.S. military personnel killed, 80 naval aircraft and 97 army planes destroyed, and 19 ships sunk, including the battleships West Virginia, Oklahoma, Utah, and Arizona.
"Isn't Jimmy Everson on the Arizona?" It was old Burt Meeker, the owner of the store who spoke. "Yep, I believe he is," he said in answer to his own question. "His brother Jack is in the army down at Fort Dix, but I remember their dad saying that Jimmy was on the Arizona over in Pearl. Sam and Edith must be worried sick."
It was two days later when the store phone rang, the only phone on the mountain. Everyone was still there. The blizzard had stopped, but the snow was 15 feet deep and the county crews had only begun to clear the roads. The conversation stopped as Burt picked up the phone. When he hung up they knew from what they had been able to hear of his side of the conversation that Jimmy Everson was all right and that he wanted them to get word to his folks.
"I'll go," Earl said immediately. "Lend me your snowshoes, Burt, and I'll follow the road."
"No, you won't," Burt declared. "It's more than two miles up to the Everson place. If that wind comes up again you would be lost in five minutes."
"I have to go. I know how my folks would feel if it was me on that ship."
They all tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. About two hours later, and only a half mile up the road, he wished that he had. The harder the wind blew, the more difficult it became to follow the road. Something made him keep going. At the end of the sixth hour it was beginning to get dark and he was nearly exhausted. He wanted to lie down in the snow and rest for a while, but he knew enough to keep himself moving. Then, suddenly, there was a light in front of him and he heard a voice calling out over the wind, "Over here." He struggled toward the light and the voice. Sam and Edith Everson caught him as he stumbled onto the porch. They helped him onto a stool by the door and waited for him to catch his breath. Earl could see the fear that was in their eyes. Would it be good news or bad? As soon as he was able to speak he blurted out the words they had been waiting to hear: "Jimmy called. He's okay."
Edith burst into tears and Sam grabbed ahold of her and hugged her tight. Then they went after Earl. He thought Edith never was going to stop kissing him.
"Why are we standing out here in the cold? Come on inside," Sam said. "Come over here and warm yourself by the fire. Make yourself at home. Put your feet up."
Scrap Pile
Get Out of the Boat
by Pamela J. Tinnin
He said "come." So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus.
Matthew 14:29
When my father retired from the Navy, we moved to a small fishing and logging town on the southern Oregon coast. The coastline along that part of the state is as beautiful as any I've seen. It is also extremely dangerous -- the shore crops away sharply and the water is broken by rocky outcroppings, some clearly visible while others lie hidden beneath the waves.
Every few years a fishing boat was lost in the storms that swept in off the Pacific, until finally the U.S. Coast Guard opened a station there. When I was a senior in high school, I saw one of their rescue efforts. I was standing on the shore, watching through binoculars while the wind whipped my hair and the rain came in dark sheets and the Coast Guard station alarm blared behind me. Within minutes after the siren had sounded, the dock was lined with townspeople, watching the scene with anxious eyes -- wives and parents and friends, clasping hands, holding each other up, sending up prayers.
The rescuers didn't have a helicopter, just a small boat of their own. The little boat struggled to find its way through waves that topped out at 30 and 40 feet, sliding down and down, then rising up and up on the crest.
Bandon was a small town, and I knew most of the fishermen. The boat in trouble was the Cindy Kay with five men aboard, one of them a neighbor of ours, Lawrence Ashton, just five or six years older than I was. I'd had a crush on him since junior high, but his age, wild reputation, and my parents kept me from ever pursuing that interest.
The Cindy Kay was breaking up, her hull tearing into pieces as the wind tossed her against the rocks. As I watched, my hands clenching the binoculars, I saw a man swept overboard and disappear, almost as if he'd never been there. I could see another man standing at the rail, his yellow slicker bright against the dark sky. He was looking at the water, searching for the man who'd gone under. Then he tore off the slicker and jumped, all in one motion, and he too disappeared beneath the waves.
It wasn't until later I learned the man who jumped was Lawrence Ashton, the kid who'd been nothing but trouble since I'd known him. But on that day, when Lawrence pulled Mickey Andrews up from the deep, he forever became a hero.
I was 17 standing there in the middle of that storm when the Coast Guard vessel brought in all five survivors. I remember Lawrence coming down the walkway, a gray blanket around his shoulders, his blond hair wet against his head. Word came that he had been the one to jump into the water, the one who saved Mickey. All of us waiting there on the dock cheered and cheered for him, and the reporter from Channel 12 stopped him and asked how it felt to be a hero. Lawrence just shook his head and blinked at the lights, then moved on. That was the last time I saw him until three years ago when I was back there for my high school reunion.
In the last few years, something strange has happened. People who've known me all my life, people who knew me as a clumsy kid, as a rebellious teenager, as a struggling young adult -- when they hear I'm a minister, they tell me things like a confession or something, like they've forgotten I'm the same old Pam I always was.
Lawrence was no exception. I ran into him at the grocery store. Even with gray hair and a bit of extra around the middle, he still has that wild look in his eye and that teasing smile. When I told him I was a minister, he laughed and said, "Now that's crazy." He told me he had his own fishing boat with his three boys. We talked a while about families and work and how time goes so fast.
I started to say good-bye, then I turned back and said, "Lawrence, I was there on the dock that day -- that was something. You were a hero."
"Nah," he said, "I'm no hero. I didn't want to get off that boat. It was breaking up fast, but we knew the Coast Guard was comin' and if we just hung on, we'd make it."
"So what made you do it?" I asked.
"I don't know exactly," he answered and shook his head. He didn't look at me while he talked, his eyes on the produce man stacking oranges in a big pyramid.
"I kept thinkin' about Mickey's wife and how they had a little kid and another on the way; how there wasn't nobody else to do it but me. Next thing I knew I was in the water, so cold and so dark I couldn't see a thing. I looked up at the boat once, then kicked hard and headed down into the darkness. I was choking for air and I almost gave up when I saw his face, all white and dead-looking. I grabbed for his hair and hung on. When I looked up there was nothin' but black water and I remember thinking, 'Jesus, help us.' Help us -- me, who'd never prayed in my life. Then a light come on up there by the boat, a big circle of light. I kept hold of him, and swam for that light. Funny thing," he said and laughed, "I didn't even like Mickey."
Then he turned back to me and smiled. "You know, my life's not much to brag on. I'm no church man, never was. Never could stand to sit still that long. I still drink too much most Saturday nights. Been divorced twice. And I'm sure no hero. But at least I got that one thing, that one time when I did what was right, scared as I was. Maybe that counts for something, huh?"
His face was flushed and his eyes slid past mine. Perhaps he was seeking some kind of absolution, but I failed to offer him anything but the usual polite things you say when you meet someone from your past. "Well, good to see you... Let's stay in touch... Come on by and meet the family." Then we shook hands and walked away.
This past week, thinking about the story in Matthew, I've wished I could see Lawrence and tell him what I should have told him that night, that it's our whole life that counts for something, not just those big moments, those times when we have to risk everything. Certainly those times may come into our lives. But most of our days will be filled with those small moments, those small decisions, the ones that sometimes scare us worse than the big ones.
Pamela J. Tinnin is pastor of Guerneville Community Church (United Church of Christ) in Guerneville, California. Pamela has written stories for all three of the books in the Vision series. She is also a co-author of Bit Players In The Big Play (CSS Publishing Company).
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StoryShare, August 7, 2005, issue.
Copyright 2005 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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