My Basement, South Carolina
I stand corrected. Recently, I declared that one of the grandest sources of anticipation comes from standing on a launch field waiting for ‘your’ hot air balloon to be inflated; to hear the pilot say “hop in.” Joining in the camaraderie and esprit des corps of dozens of other balloonists and voyagers intoxicated with life on a mass of ascension at sunset has to be a transcendent experience of the highest order. It gets better, way better! On occasion, we have those encounters with people that distill the very best out of what can make being human so glorious at times.
For years I have fantasized what it would be like to be in Europe with dear friends or family for the holidays; experiencing the magic of ice skating on the canals of the Netherlands, hearing choristers sing the holiday anthems with great joy, the wonder of twinkling lights in blankets of heavy snow, all those images of life when the universe is profoundly friendly, most importantly, of simply being with those we find companionable. It is something I came close to at one time, but never quite grasped. Often I have bitterly lamented that I did not embrace that priceless opportunity when it washed up onto my shores last century. So often there are no second chances with such things. Once in a great while there is. Today was my day.
Sitting here in my basement early in the morning, the landline rings. Usually telemarketers call only in the afternoons and evenings. I think they sleep in because of their late night work harassing people at the dinner hour across four time zones. I pick the phone up, wondering who wants what from me. Mercifully, I was feeling nice when I answered.
The first syllable told me that the voice on the other end was one I would rather hear more than most any in the world. I’ve just been invited to again ride my bike in the birch forests, to embrace life with the skaters on the canals, to live in the magic of Dutch community in a winterscape oil painting, to again visit the home of the Old Masters, to bask in the grandest of friendships, even to visit the new Hermitage.
Last week I presented lectures in the university on the Restoration Catholic Churches of the Nederland, the whole time wondering if I would ever wander through those vast inspiring spaces again, overcome by a numinous sense of wonder. They were given to me again today. They are mine during the time of year when the patina of the Holy washes over the world, even compelling soldiers to put down their weapons and fear and come out of their trenches to embrace one another.
It was but yesterday that I received a You-Tube video of the most spontaneous glorious outburst of music, creativity and shared delight. During the last remnant of winter, in March, two hundred people in the Central Train Station in Antwerp erupted into an enthralling rendition of July Andrews singing “Do, Re, Mi” from the musical “The Sound of Music”, dancing across the floor of the vast neoclassical hall. Someone with a video camera captured the entirety of this spectacular happening. I was nearly overwhelmed with my own happy memories in that grand station from another distant century. Today with overpowering anticipation, I can look forward to returning to that wondrous space in the company of some of the dearest people in the world. It was given to me, wrapped in the stupendous gift of friendship.
One could easily question why I don’t simply get on a plane and go see these things if it is such a big deal to me to do so. Hundreds of planes cross over every day. Countless travel vendors sell package deals to do Christmas shopping in Bavaria, to sky in the Alps over the holidays, ad infinitum. What they don’t’ sell is friendship or community. What has made these places so utterly transformative for me in the past are the indelible markings of friendship that get imprinted on my experiences there, those things one finds ‘off the grid.’ I cannot conceive of visiting these places as a mere tourist, simply observing life from the windows of a motor coach or hopping out here and there to run around an attraction for an hour. It is perhaps a bit like asking a lover to be ‘just friends’. It is the rhythm of companionship and comfortable banter, of shared history, that transforms one from gawking tourist into celebrating participant.
The shortest way to transfiguration is the touch of One that matters. I am reminded that as stupendous as such experiences and friendships are there, even the invitation to what feels like a homecoming, there is another invitation that causes our earthbound experience to pale in comparison. We are invited to a place that hundreds of planes cannot take us to, to a shared experience of love and companionship that no vendor can provide, one that we never have to regret letting get away from us. It’s a place even telemarketers can’t find.
"Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And you know the way to where I am going." Thomas said to him, "Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?" Jesus said to him, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.
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