thirty-nine memories (19)

Memory #19: "Boston Sucks"

So it's July of 2001, and we're walking to our seats in right field at Yankee Stadium: Jeanie and I and all of the Stumps--Chris, Connor, Trevor, Casey, and the philosophy professor/dad, Jim. The Yankees are playing the Blue Jays this day; we arrive just a little late for the start of the game because the traffic was horrible.

Anyhow, we're making our way to our seats, up the stairs in the right field bleachers, when a guy stands up in the middle of the crowd and starts pointing somewhere behind me and chanting "Boston sucks! Boston sucks!"

Professor Stump (did I mention he's a very smart guy?) is a huge Red Sox fan. When I get to my seat, I realize that pretty much the entire section of bleachers is now standing, chanting wildly: "Boston sucks! Boston sucks!" pointing at James B. Stump, PhD, who happens to be wearing his Red Sox hat to the game between the Yankees and the Blue Jays in Yankee Stadium.

Allow me to shift tenses here. I think I'm not mistaken that his beloved wife, Chris, removed Jim's hat before he was able to sit down, and his loyal sons showed their support of their father by laughing hysterically.

Philosophically speaking, there was but one conclusion to draw from the experience: Boston sucks.

thirty-nine memories (18)

Memory #18: Pretending

Sometimes when I hit the wiffleball to Morgan in our backyard--if by sometimes I can mean practically every day--I pretend that I play for the Cubs, that some pitcher tried to sneak a fastball "up and in" past me, that I see it coming, turn on it, and watch it sail over the rightfield ivy and onto Sheffield Avenue.

thirty-nine memories (17)

Memory #17: Thunder

Sometime in February of 1998, about half way through our first year serving as missionaries in Jamaica, the good people at Grace Missionary Church in Kingston decided it was time to host a basketball tournament on their new basketball court. So we put together a 3 on 3 tournament, invited teams, and roughly thirty teams showed up. The tournament lasted three Saturdays, and culminated in a grand party and feast with food and drink and gospel reggae.

I treasure this picture above. I can't stop myself from staring at it. They called themselves the "Tower Hill Thunder"--Tower Hill for their neighborhood church in Olympic Gardens. Thunder for no other reason than that I suggested it and everyone liked it. They called me "Coach."

Andrew (they called him "tall-ite"--don't ask me how that's supposed to be spelled) holding the ball in one hand near his head had one of the ugliest jumpshots you could ever imagine. He could dunk the ball ferociously for someone who was 6'5" and an unhusky 180 pounds soaking wet. But anything outside of five feet from the basket was an adventure.

So as the clock wound down in the championship game that day, with the Thunder losing by two, I was on the sidelines, trying to look impartial in my role as tournament director. But I was of course hoping that Andrew (tall-ite) would take the ball to the hoop and try to get a lay-up or a foul. Instead, he launched a twenty-five footer from just left of the top of the key that floated ludicrously high in the tropical breeze, paused for a second at its peak, and then fluttered basketward. It clanged violently against the backboard.

And then swished through the net.

You ever wonder what the angels do when some sinner comes home? I like to think it looks like grown boys wildly dancing, hooting and chanting, with the sheer ecstasy of the impossible shot that somehow found its mark.

I cheered too. There was a relatively small cash prize awarded to the champions--the equivalent of 100 U.S. dollars. Divided five ways, that's not much.

Though none of them at that point was a Christian, the next day they appeared in their neighborhood church--Tower Hill Missionary--and presented their trophy to the congregation. And half their cash prize.

Picture:

top row: Andrew Bloomfield; Bullah; Lionel Lamont; Cephas Miller

bottom row: Coach (me); Andrew Lamont

Not pictured: The angel that redirected that shot through the hoop.

thirty-nine memories (16)

Memory #16: Everything Is Illuminated

"I have reflected many times upon our rigid search. It has shown me that everything is illuminated in the light of the past. It is always along the side of us, on the inside, looking out. Like you say, inside out. Jonathan, in this way, I will always be along the side of your life. And you will always be along the side of mine." (Alex, in Everything is Illuminated)

He wonders if the past is just the past, or if it really is "along side of us, on the inside, looking out?" He writes memories. Where do they come from, if not from the inside?

He remembers grading writing portfolios. At the end of every fall semester for the past ten years he has read the revised work of his freshmen writing students. These portfolios tell the story of their semester; they are testaments of their devotion to the writing process. But they are also examples of the past making its way from their insides and out on to the page.

He reads these testimonials: nine essays on various topics; a research paper; commentaries on how each paper has been revised and improved since he last saw it; a self-evaluation of each paper; a cover letter reflecting on the writer's growth over the course of the semester. He grades them, sure. But he reads them. With wonder. And gratitude.

Everything--(Is this hyperbole? No! Let it stand.)--everything is illuminated in the light of the past.

Inside out.

thirty-nine memories (15)

Memory #15: An Unreliable Memory

I seem to be suffering from some sort of memory blank tonight. Since I can't remember anything to write tonight, let me . . . um . . . construct a memory, instead.

Let's suppose there was once a painfully shy first grader who found himself hopelessly attracted to the most beautiful little blonde haired girl from his class. One day, instead of playing football like normal, he chased her around the playground. At first, playfully. But then, for no reason he could ever fully understand, furiously.

He tripped her.

He felt the anguish of remorse before she hit the ground, before she burst into those heart-breaking tears, before she stormed off to tell the teacher.

The teacher, the little girl's giant blonde doppelganger (could it have been that he was furiously attracted to her as well?), sat the boy and girl down and asked the boy: "Why? Why did you trip her? Do you not like her?"

He cried, but he could never make them understand, because he could not himself understand, that he had done it because he loved her.

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Memory #14: I Am a Witness

For the past two years in FYE I have had my students read the novel Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. If you haven't, by all means rush out and get a copy to read. Allow me first to quote a little passage from the first chapter--a little something about miracles. A memory will follow.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week—a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards. I'm sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word.

Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It's true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying orders and climbing up out of the grave—now there's a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time. When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle
contradicts the will of earth.

My sister, Swede, who often sees to the nub, offered this: People fear miracles because they fear being changed—though ignoring them will change you also. Swede said another thing, too, and it rang in me like a bell: No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, Here's what I saw. Here's how it went. Make of it what you will. (p. 3)

On Friday, October 24, 2008, I witnessed a miracle in my office. Someone (who had recently read this very same book) was dead, and came to life. Was lost, and was found. Was blind, and saw. Was born again. Became a child of God.

I know what I saw. I am a witness. This is how it went. Make of it what you will.