If I did not believe in the sovereignty of God (and I do), I might think that I was born in the wrong decade. For as long as I can remember, I have been an old soul. In fact, when I was probably 13 or 14, a family member said that I was the youngest eighty-year-old he had ever met.
He was not wrong. My interests have always skewed toward things of the past—antiques, big band music, black and white movies, classic cars, history in general. I have also had, since my earliest days, a grand appreciation for those Scripture calls “the silver-haired,” those, in my case, who were members of the Greatest Generation. It has been my privilege to count among my friends veterans of the Second World War, Holocaust survivors, and at least one Rosie the Riveter. My friendships with these people were special. While I could commiserate with my peers about homework and problems in our social lives, my friendships with members of the Greatest Generation brought something no peer friendship could: perspective. These friends, who had come of age during the Great Depression, who had been sent into Hell-on-Earth war zones, who had come home to build families and a nation, these were people with experiences that brought my “big problems” down to their proper scale. More than once, when faced with what seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, I have heard the counsel of a seasoned friend echoing in my mind. “Throughout your life,” wrote one of them, “you will have many successes and ‘also-rans’. Take them all in stride and thank God for all of them.” Another, a survivor of the Holocaust, advised me on the matter of happiness. “I survived the Holocaust, and I still smile,” he said. “Why can’t everyone else?” Talk about a change in perspective. Of course, the downside to having friends much older than oneself is that the friendships are relatively brief. When I visit the cemetery, I do sometimes feel like the youngest eighty-year-old ever, as I walk from grave to grave, remembering cherished friends, an experience many my age will not have until years down the road. Even in death, though, the lives these people lived offer a realignment to my own myopic thinking. As a 30-something, my focus is largely on the immediate—buying a house, caring for my family, mowing the lawn, taking the car in for an oil change. All necessary and good things. But the realization that these friends are now in eternity, their bodies buried beneath the sod, causes me to consider not only where they are, but where I am and where I want to be. In five or six decades, when I am the silver-haired—or, more likely, the no-haired—what do I want to be able to look back on? What do I want to be true of who I am and what I have done with my vaporous life? Moses, that great emancipator and law-giver of the Israelites, must have had this same thought in mind when he wrote Psalm 90: “The days of our lives are seventy years; and if by reason of strength they are eighty years, yet their boast is only labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away…So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:10, 12). I am only a few decades in, and already I’ve had my share of lessons learned the hard way. But I am thankful for the perspective and wisdom that I’ve gleaned from my older friends. Indeed, the Lord has used their lives to teach me to number my days, so that I might gain a heart of wisdom.
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Although I have been told that a visit to Arlington National Cemetery is a moving experience, I find it difficult to believe that the goosebumps on my arms could be any larger there than they are at Elkland Township Cemetery on Memorial Day.
The sight of the Avenue of Flags, each one coupled with a set of plaques honoring a departed veteran, sends a shiver down the spine and a lump into the throat of even the most stoic among us. I have commemorated Memorial Day in other cities. Some host large parades, while others feature ceremonies with all the pomp and circumstance of Washington, D.C. But for me, Memorial Day will forever be connected to a small cemetery in Michigan’s Thumb, where the whole town gathers beneath the pines to reflect and to remember. The rhythmic snap of the marching band drum, coming slowly down the drive, quickly disabuses us of thoughts of cookouts and furniture sales, at least for now. We are here to do something sacred, to inculcate in the hearts of our children and in ourselves a deep sense of the gravity of freedom’s price; to remember that there is a reason for cliches like “freedom is not free,” and that that reason is that such statements are true. Men — mostly men with gray hair and creased faces — stand at attention. They wear uniforms...some too tight, some too loose, but it doesn’t matter. Their eyes are not on themselves. They face the flag, the same colors they followed into war what seems like a lifetime ago. And they remember. Mercifully, there are no politicians on the dais. The only ones there are veterans and a preacher — the guardians of a nation and the shepherd of hearts. And they are there because here we still believe, at least in part, that freedom from tyranny and freedom from sin are interrelated and are the gravest of matters. In my memory, Jack Esau, a man the late-Bill Kritzman called “a father to Cass City,” is ever present on that platform. For nearly 50 years, it was Jack — standing tall, campaign hat perched jauntily atop his head— who welcomed the community and served as the event’s master of ceremonies. There are the opening remarks and the short sermon. There are arms around loved ones as a list of names is read. “Not present, sir!” comes the shout, identifying each veteran who fell from the ranks in the past year. There is the volley of rifle shots that brings surprised cries from youngsters and the playing of Taps that causes adults’ eyes to well up for a different reason. In that moment, the gravity of the occasion settles on the assembled. Political rancor and the controversies of the day seem petty and insignificant, at least for the moment. Thoughts far more significant occupy our minds as we are confronted by the high price of American freedom. The ceremony closes and the mood changes markedly. Neighbors, long separated by winter’s gloom, greet each other with handshakes and claps on the back. Families thoughtfully wander the grounds in search of loved ones’ graves. Plans for lunch and outdoor projects are discussed, while children clad in Little League uniforms chase after one another. And it is perfect. You can see it on the faces of the veterans. Their memories of the past, often dark, give way to the joy of seeing a community at peace, another generation enjoying the fruit of their predecessors’ hard-fought, often bloody, battles. It is the proper blend of ceremony and celebration, reverence and recreation. As we gather, again, this year to honor those who paid the ultimate price on our behalf, may we come together to remember the cost of our freedom, then depart, grateful and ready to enjoy it. I recently came into possession of a collection of photographs from the 1990s, which included some Cass City residents. Though I recognized many of those pictured, there were several I could not identify.
So, to the “You Know You’re From Cass City If...” Facebook page I went. Within minutes, members of the group — Cass Cityans both past and present — chimed in: “That’s so and so. Oh, I remember her! That man was the best neighbor. I have fond memories of that couple.” By the next day, nearly everyone was identified. Several people commented that looking through the pictures was a walk down memory lane. Others noted that the people pictured were integral parts of their younger lives, and they shared memories of what made those people so dear to them. Sandi Doyen Rosteutcher’s comment was particularly striking. She wrote, “You know what I love about this? So many people knew who so many of these people were. I knew many faces but I forget names. But my point is that in our little town, there was such a spirit of community. Sad to say that I live in (a) subdivision, and I can’t tell you the name of one neighbor. And they couldn’t tell you mine. Very sad the way much of our world is now.” I’ve been thinking about Sandi’s comment all week. She’s right. Living in a municipality is not the same thing as being a part of a community, any more than living next door to someone makes you a true neighbor. In recent years, Americans have segregated themselves from one another and have created “communities” along ideological lines, where groupthink often prevails. But such groups are not communities at all. Rather, what makes a community a community is the will of its people to interact with one another, in spite of their differences and the occasional difficulties of living alongside those different from ourselves. It is not enough to share a zip code or a voting precinct. Nor is the occasional wave as we take out the trash sufficient. Building a community requires the hard work of neighboring, of shoveling one another’s driveways, of sharing holidays and birthdays with people to whom we’re not related. In short, it means giving a hoot for the guy next door. Cass City has, historically, been a community in the true sense of the word. The memories people shared on the Cass City Facebook page about those pictured are evidence that ours has never been a mere place to live. Here, people care about one another. Still, vigilance is in order. To paraphrase President Ronald Reagan, community is a fragile thing and it’s never more than one generation away from extinction. Indeed, it is difficult to think of a time in American history when real community has been more difficult to cultivate and maintain than it is now. Robert D. Putnam, political scientist at Harvard University, notes that changes in technology, economics, and the social fabric have wreaked havoc on American communities. As he writes, this is “shorthand for saying that things like television, two-career family, [and] generational changes have made fewer of us go on picnics, join the Rotary or hang out at the bar.” It seems Putnam is right. Streaming services keep us from gathering at the Cass Theatre. Outsourcing and virtual workplaces prevent us from water-cooler conversations at local factories. Our abandonment of the pursuit of truth renders church attendance and Sunday school picnics obsolete. And the shift from Main Street shops to Amazon.com means we do not bump into each other at the store anymore — indeed, there is no store in which to bump. Though it seems the days when places like Kritzmans Clothing Store and McConkey Jewelry and Gift Shop are likely behind us, it does not mean that communities are things of the past, too. Communities must be fought for, which requires some intentional decisions: *To join a civic club instead of spending Thursday nights binge watching Netflix. *To attend village council and school board meetings — not for the sake of arguing, but for being informed and involved. *To be aware of the needs our neighbors face and to look for ways to meet them ourselves. *To actively participate in those functions of community we do have—parades and fundraisers and concerts and funerals and celebrations and downtown beautification projects. It won’t be easy. But judging by the comments made about the photographs of some of Cass City’s former residents, the value of a vibrant community, and those who shape it, is incalculable. It was Oct. 1, 1943, and there were nearly two years left of World War II. American G.I.s were stationed around the world, fighting tyranny...and homesickness.
Back in the United States, America’s favorite crooner, Bing Crosby, was recording what would become one of his most popular tunes, a song that reflected both the melancholy and the hopes of the age—“I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” It was a piece that channeled the feelings many Americans, both at home and abroad, were wrestling with in the midst of dark days. It also reminded servicemen of what they were sacrificing for. Yank, a magazine published for military personnel, said that Crosby, in his song, “accomplished more for military morale than anyone else of that era.” Although we are not fighting a bloody war this year, we, Americans, and the rest of our world neighbors are witnessing one of the most tumultuous years of the past decade, a year that certainly has caused our own morale to take a hit. Earlier last month, with the last of the Halloween candy gone, my thoughts turned to the holidays. My heart warmed with anticipation of my family’s trip back to Cass City for Christmas. Las Vegas, where I now live, has endless opportunities for entertainment during the holiday season, but in my mind, there is no better place to celebrate than in the little village nestled in Michigan’s Thumb. It is there that I find my family and friends, who are always up for a visit over a cup of hot chocolate. There, the peace of the town, blanketed by a late afternoon snow, refreshes me. There, the voices lifted in worship under the warm glow of the lights in the Baptist church, give new life to the old greeting, Merry Christmas. As I packed my bag, thinking about such joyful things, I hummed —I’ll be home for Christmas. But when a friend with whom we had recently been in contact notified us that they tested positive for Covid-19, everything changed. That text changed our plans entirely, not only because it meant we had to be tested (a process that took, in our case, three days), but also because it caused us to consider the severity and reality of this microscopic nemesis. It all added up to one thing — we had to cancel our plans. I would be home for Christmas, but only in my dreams. If you think about it, a change of plans is a major motif of the biblical Christmas account. The dreams of a young man and his betrothed are changed when they learn that she is carrying the Messiah of Israel. The social and political aims of Rome were disrupted by the rumors of a royal Child born in the City of David. And best of all, the status quo of the world, “in sin and error pining,” was upended when “He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” This year, my family and I will celebrate Christmas in our little apartment, not under a blanket of snow, but rather under the shade of a palm tree. It will be different, and I will, undoubtedly, dream about being home for Christmas in that most special of villages. But I will also be reminded that, no matter where we might be, no matter how white the Christmas is or is not, the event we are celebrating transcends Covid-19. The Person we are celebrating was and continues to be a major disruption to mankind’s plans. Indeed, the night His pitiful cry was first heard in Bethlehem, the future of the world — particularly that of those who put their trust in Him for salvation—was irreversibly and dramatically altered. Now that’s a change of plans I’m grateful for. Originally published in The Cass City Chronicle on September 2, 2020
Just a couple of weeks ago, I began my last semester of college, and even though I’ve been out of high school for 10 years, the first day back to class still affects me. There’s still something electric about the air on the morning of that first day. As I think about back-to-school time, my mind goes to Willis Campbell Elementary School. Having gone to Deford Elementary from Kindergarten through the third grade, I only spent one year at Campbell. But it was a year that had a profound impact on me, mostly because of one teacher. I was a pudgy, bespeckled 10-year-old who was in the midst of a baseball obsession when I entered Mrs. Yvonne Sherman’s fourth grade class. Generally, I liked school. History, English, geography--even science-- they all came quite easily to me. Math, however, was a different matter. I got so confused when it came to numbers. Did one really need to know the difference between the big hand and the little hand on the clock? And what on Earth did it matter how many pieces of pie Oscar would have after he gave four of them to his friend? The point was he had pie. Leave it at that! Fourth grade math brought its own problems. I can still remember the sense of panic I felt when, just after recess, I saw the overhead projector sitting in the middle of the classroom. Its presence could mean only one thing: a math drill. On a piece of paper were printed 100 multiplication problems. At Mrs. Sherman’s “Go!”, we were to successfully complete as many problems as we could in 1 minute. My palms were wet. Sweat beads formed on my brow. I looked down at my paper. I was, at once, sweltering and frozen. I hoped no one would notice my inability to do the problems. But one person did. Mrs. Sherman did. And it was one of the best things that ever happened. She sat down with my parents soon after and explained the situation. She told them that, due to the fast pace of the curriculum, she could not hold the rest of the class back until I grasped the math concepts. “He needs a little extra help,” she said. That extra help came in the form of Friday afternoon tutoring sessions after school. So embarrassed was I about these sessions, though, that I would run to the bathroom just minutes before the dismissal bell rang, hiding out in one of the stalls until I heard the rest of the kids leave through the cafeteria. Back in the classroom, Mrs. Sherman patiently sat down with a stack of scrap paper, a few sharpened pencils, and plenty of erasers to help her struggling student. These sessions went on even through the summer, because she wanted me to be ready for middle school math. The tutoring paid off--I learned the material and was ready for the 5th grade. But even more importantly, I learned the inestimable value of a good teacher, someone who took the time to ensure her struggling student did not fall through the cracks. There’s a great deal to criticize about the way we educate our kids today; but one thing is for sure: when it comes to getting a quality education, a good teacher makes all the difference. Thanks, Mrs. Sherman. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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