There cannot be too many ways to hear from you , whether it be archived PHC shows, books, essays, columns, Facebookage, or new shows on the road or sea. But I gently suggest you tap the brakes on this Post to the Host conduit, and truck no more with all of us great unwashed on an individual basis. I have seen too many posts already from individuals not fit to carry your fountain pen or Underwood, thinking they are on the same intellectual plane with you. And I include myself in that group of people who should be kept behind the wall, just reading or watching whatever you want to toss us from your own head, and not your reactions to small minded critics and quidnuncs. I know you won't quit as you probably enjoy it, but there, I have put down what I meant to put down. Regards, Keith Jones.
That insert about three kinds of men struck me to the core for a very personal reason. When I retired, I returned to Upstate New York. I ended up in a church with Ukrainian Pentecostal immigrants. They were folks who never grew up reading "Scout' Life" - the place where as a schoolchild, I had read about the dangers of electric fences.
Our pastor's family had six boys, but only five bicycles. One of the boys would ride on the top tube so they could all explore together. On a fall day like today, they rode to a road next to a nearby river side. In the Ukraine, no one taught them about "trespassing," so Erik, the middle boy, went down to the water's edge on private property. The owner was having a feud with Canadian Geese. He didn't like them pooping on his lawn, so he hooked up a wire to a 120 volt electric current in the house. When Erik wandered along the bank, feet in the river, he slipped at one point, and grabbed for what he thought was a safe hold. He died instantly. The brothers had decided to leave, and no one noticed Erik's absence. It was Saturday night, and we were having a service at church. As the service ended, our pastor got a phone call from the Sheriff's department, informing him of the tragedy. They were hardly kind. "What kind of a parent are you, to neglect your child like that?" As an American, the officer probably wasn't terribly familiar with tending a family of eleven children. In the Former Soviet Union, there had been a bounty for having many kids, so families of a dozen or more children weren't unusual. Older children were tasked with keeping track of siblings. In the rush to get to church, though, the boys hadn't stopped to count heads before they jumped into their older brothers' cars.
You can imagine how distraught our pastor was that night. Through his grief, Erik's death affected all of us. That night, at about one o'clock in the morning, I woke suddenly. I could see Jesus standing at the foot of my bed. In my mind, I was Erik. Jesus said to Erik/me: "Come Unto Me," and as Erik, obediently, I came. On Sunday morning, our pastor gave an impassioned sermon about his son, and the ways he felt he could have been a better father. He could hardly speak for his tears. After the service, I followed Erik's family to their farmhouse in the hopes of consoling them somehow. After a plentiful dinner, I asked the pastor to walk with me outside . I told him about my night-time experience. "Erik had a choice. He was such a good boy, that when Jesus asked him to come, Erik came. Erik's in Heaven. It's where he needs to be. Don't blame yourself," I counseled.
I shared the same message with those others in the family who were old enough to understand. Erik's mother, the next evening, went to her upstairs bedroom window and saw Erik's face in every cloud. Gradually, they all adapted to the trauma. Practically, the riverfront homeowner's insurance policy set up a college fund for any of Erik's brothers and sisters who decided to continue their education. The oldest brother took a management course and became the supervisor of the Ukrainian workers at his factory. Some became teachers. Erik's closest brother, Paul decided he really loved welding, so he passed on the college education and attended a local technical school instead.
As for me, Erik became my ghostly companion for a few years. Whenever I'd drive around the countryside, there would be times when I'd see a small country cemetery with Civil-War aged headstones. "Stop!" I'd feel, as a commandment. I'd get out and walk as if guided by an unseen hand. "Here!" I'd feel, and I'd kneel down. There might be a carved symbol of a kneeling lamb above the epitaph, for example. The inscription would read "Here lies - (boy's name) - born (1851-1854 or so) died (1862-1865). It was always an eleven-year-old country boy who had died during the Civil War. It seemed to me that Erik was directing me to the friends he had on the other side. He was a country boy himself, one coming from a standard of rural living in the Ukraine that would easily approximate that of the American Civil War period.
It wasn't a one-way street, either. For Ukrainian Pentecostals, apparently, the real key to acceptance is the ability to "Speak in Tongues." Folks had even given me small tract books that emphasized this one gift as the difference between "True Believers" and just hangers on. I didn't get "the gift." That one difference marked me out as "The American. The Stranger in our midst." One day, while I was driving through a birch tree forest, similar to the ones Erik played in "back Home", I asked him for a favor. "Erik, could you give me the gift of speaking in tongues?" I didn't get a clear reply then, but the next Saturday, as we were praying, and our pastor walked past me, he stopped still. I was "speaking in tongues" in a thoroughly approved Ukrainian Pentecostal manner! It made no sense to me, but it sounded right to the congregation!
Where does this story end? The conclusion starts with a sunset over a large lake. There was a particularly reddish hue to one section of the sky. In it, I could "see" Erik in a "waiting room." Catholics would call it "Purgatory", but it didn't seem punitive. It was more like the waiting room in a train station. On that lake shore, I felt/heard suddenly, a very definitive list of conditions. 1) Papa will forgive me for going off on my own and making a bad mistake. 2) Mama will send something of mine to the Ukraine, so that part of me can be in my real home again. 3) I always wanted to be baptized, but Dad kept saying I wasn't old enough. When one of my brothers gets baptized, he will be standing in for me as well. Once these things have occurred, I'll be able to really get through the Pearly Gates."
Soon, these events began to occur. 1) Within the first month, as soon as he could speak without being overcome with tears, Erik's father gave a heartfelt apology to his son, saying how much he loved him, and how he'd forgive him for anything in the world, just to have him back again. 2) It hurt Erik's mother too much to wash Erik's clothing and see the hand-me-downs on her other sons. She put together a package of all the clothes that she most associated with Erik, and sent the package to one of Erik's aunts in the Ukraine. 3) A year had gone by. Our pastor asked me to ride to Buffalo with him and coach him on the US Citizenship questions, just to make sure he was ready. He was. He successfully passed the test, to his great relief. On the way back, once he calmed down, I talked to him about Paul. I said: "When we were in the Ukraine, Paul told me that he'd really like to be baptized. "Papa says I'm immature, but really, I do understand. I think I'm ready." As soon as spring was warm enough, Paul was baptized in a small local lake. We sat on park benches with pine trees above. When Paul entered the water, I could feel/almost visibly see Erik on a branch of the tree above, glowing in the sunlight. Erik was baptized through his favorite older brother that day. Once Paul had changed out of his white robe, I caught up with him and told him about Erik's presence. I doubt that Paul really related to what I said. At the same time, Erik's loss had tremendously affected the whole family. It seemed as if Paul might be thinking "Well, if we can get beyond this, I don't mind if some of the burden falls on me."
That was the very last time I ever "felt" Erik's presence. It was really as if he had been released; no longer "Earth-bound." These days, when I'm driving around the countryside, sometimes I'll go past one of those rural burying grounds. "Over the rise, there off to the left," I'll think to myself. Sometimes, I've stopped and walked there. Sure enough, there's the Civil War-era boy's stone, with the lamb engraved above his name. And I feel as if we're One People, tied to each other through generations, even as we're tied to the earth.
I'm forever thankful for having that time with Erik and his family. Amen
There cannot be too many ways to hear from you , whether it be archived PHC shows, books, essays, columns, Facebookage, or new shows on the road or sea. But I gently suggest you tap the brakes on this Post to the Host conduit, and truck no more with all of us great unwashed on an individual basis. I have seen too many posts already from individuals not fit to carry your fountain pen or Underwood, thinking they are on the same intellectual plane with you. And I include myself in that group of people who should be kept behind the wall, just reading or watching whatever you want to toss us from your own head, and not your reactions to small minded critics and quidnuncs. I know you won't quit as you probably enjoy it, but there, I have put down what I meant to put down. Regards, Keith Jones.
That insert about three kinds of men struck me to the core for a very personal reason. When I retired, I returned to Upstate New York. I ended up in a church with Ukrainian Pentecostal immigrants. They were folks who never grew up reading "Scout' Life" - the place where as a schoolchild, I had read about the dangers of electric fences.
Our pastor's family had six boys, but only five bicycles. One of the boys would ride on the top tube so they could all explore together. On a fall day like today, they rode to a road next to a nearby river side. In the Ukraine, no one taught them about "trespassing," so Erik, the middle boy, went down to the water's edge on private property. The owner was having a feud with Canadian Geese. He didn't like them pooping on his lawn, so he hooked up a wire to a 120 volt electric current in the house. When Erik wandered along the bank, feet in the river, he slipped at one point, and grabbed for what he thought was a safe hold. He died instantly. The brothers had decided to leave, and no one noticed Erik's absence. It was Saturday night, and we were having a service at church. As the service ended, our pastor got a phone call from the Sheriff's department, informing him of the tragedy. They were hardly kind. "What kind of a parent are you, to neglect your child like that?" As an American, the officer probably wasn't terribly familiar with tending a family of eleven children. In the Former Soviet Union, there had been a bounty for having many kids, so families of a dozen or more children weren't unusual. Older children were tasked with keeping track of siblings. In the rush to get to church, though, the boys hadn't stopped to count heads before they jumped into their older brothers' cars.
You can imagine how distraught our pastor was that night. Through his grief, Erik's death affected all of us. That night, at about one o'clock in the morning, I woke suddenly. I could see Jesus standing at the foot of my bed. In my mind, I was Erik. Jesus said to Erik/me: "Come Unto Me," and as Erik, obediently, I came. On Sunday morning, our pastor gave an impassioned sermon about his son, and the ways he felt he could have been a better father. He could hardly speak for his tears. After the service, I followed Erik's family to their farmhouse in the hopes of consoling them somehow. After a plentiful dinner, I asked the pastor to walk with me outside . I told him about my night-time experience. "Erik had a choice. He was such a good boy, that when Jesus asked him to come, Erik came. Erik's in Heaven. It's where he needs to be. Don't blame yourself," I counseled.
I shared the same message with those others in the family who were old enough to understand. Erik's mother, the next evening, went to her upstairs bedroom window and saw Erik's face in every cloud. Gradually, they all adapted to the trauma. Practically, the riverfront homeowner's insurance policy set up a college fund for any of Erik's brothers and sisters who decided to continue their education. The oldest brother took a management course and became the supervisor of the Ukrainian workers at his factory. Some became teachers. Erik's closest brother, Paul decided he really loved welding, so he passed on the college education and attended a local technical school instead.
As for me, Erik became my ghostly companion for a few years. Whenever I'd drive around the countryside, there would be times when I'd see a small country cemetery with Civil-War aged headstones. "Stop!" I'd feel, as a commandment. I'd get out and walk as if guided by an unseen hand. "Here!" I'd feel, and I'd kneel down. There might be a carved symbol of a kneeling lamb above the epitaph, for example. The inscription would read "Here lies - (boy's name) - born (1851-1854 or so) died (1862-1865). It was always an eleven-year-old country boy who had died during the Civil War. It seemed to me that Erik was directing me to the friends he had on the other side. He was a country boy himself, one coming from a standard of rural living in the Ukraine that would easily approximate that of the American Civil War period.
It wasn't a one-way street, either. For Ukrainian Pentecostals, apparently, the real key to acceptance is the ability to "Speak in Tongues." Folks had even given me small tract books that emphasized this one gift as the difference between "True Believers" and just hangers on. I didn't get "the gift." That one difference marked me out as "The American. The Stranger in our midst." One day, while I was driving through a birch tree forest, similar to the ones Erik played in "back Home", I asked him for a favor. "Erik, could you give me the gift of speaking in tongues?" I didn't get a clear reply then, but the next Saturday, as we were praying, and our pastor walked past me, he stopped still. I was "speaking in tongues" in a thoroughly approved Ukrainian Pentecostal manner! It made no sense to me, but it sounded right to the congregation!
Where does this story end? The conclusion starts with a sunset over a large lake. There was a particularly reddish hue to one section of the sky. In it, I could "see" Erik in a "waiting room." Catholics would call it "Purgatory", but it didn't seem punitive. It was more like the waiting room in a train station. On that lake shore, I felt/heard suddenly, a very definitive list of conditions. 1) Papa will forgive me for going off on my own and making a bad mistake. 2) Mama will send something of mine to the Ukraine, so that part of me can be in my real home again. 3) I always wanted to be baptized, but Dad kept saying I wasn't old enough. When one of my brothers gets baptized, he will be standing in for me as well. Once these things have occurred, I'll be able to really get through the Pearly Gates."
Soon, these events began to occur. 1) Within the first month, as soon as he could speak without being overcome with tears, Erik's father gave a heartfelt apology to his son, saying how much he loved him, and how he'd forgive him for anything in the world, just to have him back again. 2) It hurt Erik's mother too much to wash Erik's clothing and see the hand-me-downs on her other sons. She put together a package of all the clothes that she most associated with Erik, and sent the package to one of Erik's aunts in the Ukraine. 3) A year had gone by. Our pastor asked me to ride to Buffalo with him and coach him on the US Citizenship questions, just to make sure he was ready. He was. He successfully passed the test, to his great relief. On the way back, once he calmed down, I talked to him about Paul. I said: "When we were in the Ukraine, Paul told me that he'd really like to be baptized. "Papa says I'm immature, but really, I do understand. I think I'm ready." As soon as spring was warm enough, Paul was baptized in a small local lake. We sat on park benches with pine trees above. When Paul entered the water, I could feel/almost visibly see Erik on a branch of the tree above, glowing in the sunlight. Erik was baptized through his favorite older brother that day. Once Paul had changed out of his white robe, I caught up with him and told him about Erik's presence. I doubt that Paul really related to what I said. At the same time, Erik's loss had tremendously affected the whole family. It seemed as if Paul might be thinking "Well, if we can get beyond this, I don't mind if some of the burden falls on me."
That was the very last time I ever "felt" Erik's presence. It was really as if he had been released; no longer "Earth-bound." These days, when I'm driving around the countryside, sometimes I'll go past one of those rural burying grounds. "Over the rise, there off to the left," I'll think to myself. Sometimes, I've stopped and walked there. Sure enough, there's the Civil War-era boy's stone, with the lamb engraved above his name. And I feel as if we're One People, tied to each other through generations, even as we're tied to the earth.
I'm forever thankful for having that time with Erik and his family. Amen
Regarding Mr. Leatherdale’s comments, I believe it’s spelled “sorey.”