Reconnecting with the Sea

I haven't posted on this blog in almost six months. This post marks my third entry in about 5 days. Don't know what's up, I'm just running with it.

Last night I started reading America's Inland Waterway again. It was published by the National Geographic Society in 1973 and then again in paperback in 1983. My family was given a hardback copy signed by the photographer because there are pictures of my great-grandfather Stacy Guthrie in the book. That fact has always been a source of pride for the family. The book is basically a journal of the travels of a small sailing yacht up the Intracoastal Waterway. During part of that journey, the photographer stopped on Harkers Island and the rest is history.

The writer begins his journey in Massachusetts. On of his stops is New Bedford, where Herman Melville received his inspiration to write Moby Dick. As the writer details the emotional connection the locals have with the sea and their boats, I began to reminisce about my own childhood growing up in what was once a fishing village where everyone shared those same kind of connections. I find myself mourning for times lost. I experience naive and romantic notions of moving back home and somehow suddenly becoming an "old salt". I desire to immerse myself in knowledge of the history of my hometown so that I can reconnect with a lost heritage.

Our faith journeys often begin the same way. Something within our souls long to reconnect with something past. It's the calling of the Holy Spirit, inviting us to reconnect with our Creator and repairing the broken relationship severed thousands of years ago in the Garden. We can immerse ourselves in Him as he fills us with his presence. Fortunately for all of us, it's not just a romantic dream but a reality for all who believe.

Wow!

I was going to post some long thoughts I had this morning about marriage until a friend sent me this video clip. This seemed more appropriate than trying to exercise my intellectual muscle. Make special note of the mom's words at the end about leaving a legacy.

Happy Thanksgiving

The Disappearing Man

SPOILER WARNING! Some of the female readers may be offended by what I'm about to say. Before you read any further, let me say that I am in no way trying to diminish the efforts of the women who have worked so hard with our children, boys AND girls. However, I am continually disturbed by the absence of good men in the lives of our young boys. At this point, you have been warned. Continue reading at your own risk.
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Over the weekend I attended a Cub Scout Camporee with my oldest son. There were over 700 Cub Scouts and 1600 people total at this weekend event. This particular weekend was special because it was also the moment when the oldest group of boys "crossed" over from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts. It was a very cool and yet solemn occasion. Each scout was greeted by his Cubmaster and the "Chief" of the Order of the Arrow on one side of the bridge. The scout then crossed a bridge where on the other side he was greeted by the Scoutmaster of his new Boy Scout troop. There, the scout was given the insignias and colors of his new standing.

As I watched this ceremony take place I was bothered by what I consider to be a stark inconsistency. I was shocked by how many women hold positions of leadership in an organization whose purpose is to train and empower boys to become capable men. Some of the roles and duties performed by women this weekend appeared to be largely administrative or organizational in nature. From that perspective, one might write this off as affinity differences in genders. Some might say that the women were doing the jobs that the men did not want to do. The guys rather be out in the woods - hunting, camping, starting fires, etc. True, given the chance, most men rather be out acting on their primal urges - myself included.

But that does not explain the number of women who were den leaders - the adults who week in and week out lead the smaller groups of boys, guiding, directing, planning all the activities, and ultimately, modeling "manhood". How are young boys going to understand what it means to be a man if a woman models it? We have several women den leaders in our pack. I'm thankful for their willingness to serve. But I am more disappointed that there are not men to fill those positions.

Church is no different. In many churches, especially smaller churches, there is a desparate need for male leadership. A friend once remarked to me that a single mom began attending his church, hoping to find some stable males who could model what it means to be a man. She had tried Cub Scouts, but all the leaders were women! Problem is, most churches have few men who are willing to work with children. (I'm thankful that in my church, we have good strong men working with ALL our age groups in our children's department. As a father of two sons, I am so thankful for them.)

Veering from the societal implications and problems that the growing percentage of women leadership in Boy Scouts presents, I think we have a bigger problem in the absence of good strong male leadership in the church. We have done something to the notion of what it means to be on a Christian faith journey that has overly feminized it. Is there something about being on a faith journey that naturally has feminine undertones? Is there something about being on a faith journey that naturally repels men but attracts women?

Someone asked me the other day if many people left comments on my blog. I told him that the type of things I write usually generate introspective thoughts, but not necessarily discussion. Please, I'd like to know your thoughts. I'd like to see some discussion on this. Am I barking up the wrong tree or am I getting close to the target? Is this a real problem, and if it is, what do we do about it?

If I Had a Hammer

I have a hammer that is of immeasurable value to me. There's nothing particularly fancy about it. Just a standard hammer with a soft rubber like grip of some sort on the handle. It's covered with paint and caulking. The hammer is at least forty years old. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Poppy.

I once thought I had lost that hammer. I nearly instantaneously vomited at the thought. That's how much it means to me. Someone needed to borrow a hammer one time. Luckily they said, "Do you have a hammer I can borrow?" instead of "Can I borrow your hammer?" I was able to answer truthfully and without selfish guilt, "Sorry. I don't have a hammer you can borrow."

I'm not a carpenter. Just your average family handyman. I use that hammer for all my hammering needs. Occasionally I will use one of my kids' hammers if I need something light because of the nature of the job. I once used a hammer in the toolbox I keep in my wife's car for emergencies. It just didn't feel right. I have Poppy's hammer and it works great.

Poppy was a boat builder. He built wooden boats the old fashioned way in his backyard (which was my front yard). He even lost two of his fingers doing it. So the hammer is a sacred relic that connects me to my coastal heritage which has no contemporary manifestation. Sometimes I can hold that hammer and I swear that I can smell the sawdust as Poppy cuts and planes those juniper planks. I smell the paint and varnish used to help keep barnacles from growing on the bottom once the boat was put overboard. I can even smell his sweat and the sweet smell of Red Man on his breath.

Sometimes I hold that hammer and I think of Poppy's celebrity. The big town newspaper from Raleigh, The News & Observer, did a couple of stories on him before he died and his dying vocation of boat building. (I was even in one of those. I'm the cute four year old sitting on the bow of the boat.) He was in a book written by a journalist who traveled down the Intracoastal Waterway by boat. Somehow, this guy ended up on Harkers Island and met Poppy. There was even a picture of him in the NC History textbook used by many of the elementary schools in our state with a caption referring to his use of natural resources. When that book came to the schools back home, it generated quite a buzz.

I think a lot of just who Poppy was. Even though he died thirty-two years ago, there are still quite a few people back home who are old enough to remember him. And every single one of them have nothing but respect and good things to say about Mr. Stacy.

Right after I graduated from college, my father gave me Poppy's hammer. He gave it to me in part because I simply needed a hammer and had no tools to speak of. But he also gave it to me as an exercise of trust. He made me keeper of the flame. I'll never forget his words. They were few and simple. "This is Poppy's hammer. Don't lose it." and that was it. We both knew nothing else need be said.

Last fall I sorted through my deceased father's tools. My boys called him Poppy. My Poppy and their Poppy had a lot of similar character traits. My dad was an civilian aircraft mechanic at a Marine Air Station. I took some old ratchets and sockets and divided them up into two groups. At Christmas, I gave each one of my boys a set. I gave them these simple words. "These were Poppy's. Don't lose them."

Some things are too important to not pass on. Faith, character, and values are at the top of the list. Poppy passed all these along to my father, who passed them to me. Hammers and other tools follow close behind in importance. Arlo Guthrie (no relation, but quite interestingly an appropriate reference) sang, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer all over this land." Well, I've got a hammer. I intend to use it everywhere I go.