Being Washed Clean

October 19, 2011

I was going back over some of my old "Looking for Answers" posts.  My focus was on editing and compiling them for a book, but I had trouble separating myself from the writing.  I became wrapped up in the places and times again.  I couldn't help but think that it's been a year since I've been writing these posts.  I've done my best to testify to what I've seen and shared my reflections of what I think it means.

It's been a deep and challenging process that I hope has helped a few people and made me a little bit better person.  Yet still, I think about how far I have to go and it's demoralizing.  I still lose my focus and become overwhelmed by daily realities.  Some days it feels easier to sin that to breathe.  Too many testaments to the wisdom of Mark Nepo's words, "Stay alive and you will be hurt, and you will also hurt others."

The personal harangue is interrupted by Fiona, my oldest daughter, crying and calling "Daddy" from upstairs.

I climb the stairs and enter the girls' room.  Fiona is crying in her bed while her sister is fast asleep in her own bed.

"Daddy, I got sick," Fiona said.  "My tummy hurts."

I pull back the covers and take her into my arms.  I can feel the wet vomit on her shirt and in her hair.  Fiona sobs as she pulls her little body into mine.  She's disgusted by the half-digested food.  I carry her into the bathroom and turn on the bathwater.  Fiona continues to cry as I run the water and pull off her clothes.  She doesn't calm down until after I've washed and rinsed her hair for the second time.

Within a few minutes, Fiona out of the bath and in clean clothes.  I change the soiled bedding.  She crawls under the covers and I search for a different pillow.

Fiona smiles as I lean down to kiss her goodnight.  I know that I'll probably be back up later for another cleanup session, but for now she is at peace.

As I walk back down the stairs, I'm drawn again to the parallels between our relationship to the Divine and the relationship between a parent and a child.

Like Fiona, I can feel alone and overwhelmed by the darkness.  Disgusted messes I've made and continue to make.

I know that, like Fiona, I don't have the ability to clean myself.  My best efforts are required, but they will not be enough.  Ephesians 2:8-9 ("For by grace you have been saved through faith, and it is not from you; it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so no one may boast.")  I too call out for help.

I know somehow that call will be answered.  The Divine will wash away my failings and transgressions.  Ephesians 1:7.  Scrubbing on my soul until I finally qualify as "holy and without blemish" enough to stand before Him.  Ephesians 1:3.  Then, I'll be set forward to tackle whatever "good works" the Lord has put in my path. Ephesians 2:10.

It won't take me long to make a mess of it again.  But I know that, like Fiona, I'm just one cry away from a stronger hand to come and set me back upon the right path.

Free Delivery: Being Part of Someone Else's Plan

Note:  This is a story about the Divine using one person to affect the trajectory of another's life. Please don't confuse my role as being anything more than a dumb pawn in a larger game.


Late February - Early March 2001

I opened up my door on Sunday morning to go to church.  A newspaper lay upon my step.  I hadn't had a newspaper since West Point.  I looked to my right and left, as if someone would be there to explain to me whose paper it was.

I felt a little guilty, but took it into my house anyway.  I pulled off the rubber band and unrolled the paper.  An announcement fell to the ground stating that I'd been given a free month subscription to the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. 

After Mass, I came home and read the newspaper from the first page to the last.  At West Point, newspapers had been both a source of stress and relaxation to me.  The freshmen (plebes) are required to read and memorize the front page and sports page of The New York Times before leaving their room in the morning.  I spent every morning trying to absorb all that information and hoping that it would stick with me for when I'd be called to report on the  articles later that day.

While I cursed The New York Times for its involvement in those grilling sessions, I couldn't thank it enough for the Sunday "Travel" section.  Each Sunday during the academic year, I'd sit on my bed in the barracks and read about far away places.  I told myself that someday I'd graduate and I'd find my way to somewhere with sand, sun, cold beer, beautiful women and not a single copy of The New York Times. 

The newspaper in my hand brought all those memories back.  I sipped on coffee that was grown one island away and I felt happy to know that at least some parts of that adolescent dream had been fulfilled.  Military life hadn't turned out like I'd thought.  I was recovering from an ankle surgery in Hawaii instead of being a platoon leader in Korea, but I had a feeling that young plebe would be okay with that.

The paper was interesting and well-written.  Politics is politics and sports is sports regardless of the latitude and longitude.  One article popped out at me.  It was about a shortage of Special Ed teachers in Hawaii and their efforts to recruit teachers from the mainland.  

While my stint here hadn't been exactly paradise, it was hard to imagine Hawaii having a recruitment problem in any profession.

A few weeks later, my friend Jimmy and I went down to Waikiki to our favorite bar, "The Irish Rose."  It was tucked in a mid-range hotel and was the kind of place that most people, including us, only found by accident.  The "Irish Rose" had a mellow feel and a nice anonymous mix of people.  There was live music on the weekends, but the band never played to an audience of more than a couple of handfuls.

Tonight was different.  Waikiki was overrun with Spring Breakers and they'd spilled over into "The Irish Rose."  Jimmy and I were lucky to find a table.  We worked our way through a couple of rounds, talked about work, and watched the tourists take shots.

The bar continued to fill up.  I noticed a pretty blonde and brunette with drinks in their hands looking for a place to sit.  Jimmy and I weren't exactly Lotharios, but I figured it was worth checking to see if they wanted to share our table.

The blonde's name was Wendy and her friend was Nikki.  The girls were from Wisconsin, like Jimmy.  The conversation came easy and a few hours slipped by.  They were midway through college.  Wendy was studying Special Ed.  She said that she'd always thought about living in Hawaii and would love to teach here, but didn't know if she could find a job.

I remembered the article about Islands' need for Special Ed teachers in the Honolulu Star-Advertiser that had appeared on my doorstep.  I told Wendy what I remembered and got her email at the end of the night to send her the article.


The following December, Wendy graduated from college.  A few days after graduation, her father passed away from a heart attack.  That February, Wendy fled the tragedy for the warm sun and crashing surf of Maui.  Over the course of the years, Hawaii transformed from her refuge into her home.  Wendy fell in love, got married, and is raising a family.  To this day, she still credits the information that I gave her about Hawaii's teacher recruitment program as key to realizing her dream to move to Hawaii.

I never would have known about that program if a newspaper miraculously shown up on my doorstep a few weeks earlier.  I'm not going to say that Wendy wouldn't have made the same choices without that information, but there's enough evidence for me to believe that the Divine was giving her a little push.

p.s. You can read more about Wendy's journey to recover from the loss of her father in her novel, Seasons in the Sun.  She's a powerful writer with an honest analysis of her own feelings of loss and anger.