loss

Move and be moved – Part 1

by Steve Brock on May 23, 2013

I’d heard of the memorial and vaguely recalled the past events that led to its construction. But until last week, it meant little to me.

Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum Just a few days before the devastating tornado touched down a dozen or so miles from there this week, I stood amidst the Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum. I came not so much to pay tribute to those killed on April 19, 1995 when the rental truck driven by Timothy McVeigh exploded, cutting short the life of 168 people.

Oklahoma City National Memorial and MuseumInstead, I arrived simply because my work meetings on my business trip there had ended early. My four colleagues and I were looking for something of interest until our plane departed four hours later. We decided on the memorial for reasons that stemmed more out of a lack of other choice than intention.

Oklahoma City National Memorial and MuseumAs we approached the memorial, we took in the murmured whispers of other visitors, the  dark arches that bookend the black reflecting pool and the ochre colored building that now houses the site’s museum. Minutes later, we stood on the curved overlook listening to the park ranger as he filled in details that added incredible meaning to the space around us.

Listening to the RangerHe told of the rental truck loaded with enough fertilizer that, when ignited, left a crater seven feet deep and 27 feet wide – the distance, he pointed out, between two trees across from us. He explained about McVeigh’s getaway car parked at the time to the left of where we now stood, left unattended and unmoved for a week before the blast.

Oklahoma City National Memorial and MuseumHe told of how the axle of the blown up rental truck landed over a block away, smashing a car but not harming the person inside. How that axle’s serial number led to identifying the truck which led to finding its rental location and a description of McVeigh. How by not having license plates on the getaway car, McVeigh was pulled over an hour and a half north of here and arrested not for anything related to the explosion but because of an unregistered concealed gun they found on him when they pulled him over. How the FBI pieced it all together so quickly and made the connections that led to McVeigh’s eventual execution six years later.

Chairs of the VictimsThe ranger also recounted the personal loss in what is still the deadliest terrorist attack on US soil carried out by its own citizens. He pointed out the 168 bronze and glass chairs on the lawn across from us, one for each victim, the small ones representing the children killed that day.

The memorial wallStories and more stories, far too numerous to recount here but all made more tangible by what we could see, hear and touch.

Oklahoma City National Memorial and MuseumThe power of such memorials is that they are physical reminders that tell those of us who lived through the time of the events, “Remember.” And to those who come later: “Learn and do not forget.”

Oklahoma City National Memorial and MuseumTravel moves us from place to place. But often, if we avail ourselves, take the time and venture forth on “unnecessary” side trips, it moves us in other ways.

Jesus Wept at OKC MemorialI had no intention when I left on this business trip last week to visit this place. Now I cannot imagine ever forgetting it.

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Gratitude and the slippery slope – Part 1

by Steve Brock on May 30, 2012

This gives you some sense of crossing the avalanche slopes on the way to Annette Lake

Life is messy.

Trips are messy.

I thought I had this whole “traveling gratefully” approach down after last week when my wife’s parents were visiting. It seems so simple: pray and prepare well before the trip, go with the right attitude, be open to what comes your way and give thanks for it all.

Well, it does work that way, but not always as we expect.

This last weekend my two teen sons and I decide to go hiking. The day before, we select as our destination Annette Lake, a small alpine lake in the Cascades less than an hour’s drive from home. The hike looks perfect: Eight miles round trip, less than a 2000 foot elevation gain, a beautiful destination and enough variety along the way to keep it interesting. Or so the hiking book says.

That all sounded great the night before. When 6:30 a.m. comes around (we wanted to beat the crowds and predicted rain), however, I’m not feeling the love for this hike. Still, we head out, my oldest son driving as I pray for a better attitude, to be grateful and to make this a meaningful trip for my sons and me. Oh, and I pray for it not to rain (as drizzle smears our windshield).

We speak little on the drive there. We arrive as the rain lets up. We collectively say a word of thanks for the day so far, a good start. Moments later, we’re on the trail. The beautiful waterfalls, moss covered rocks, and trees of interesting shapes and distortions (from earlier storms this year) get my attention and keep me enthused about the prospects of this hike.

And then we hit the switchbacks.

I can buy the “no pain, no gain” mantra in small doses. I find, however, that I have this pathological aversion to discomfort. This isn’t that hard of a hike, but it is a steady uphill climb for three miles.

Soon, I am fixated on just how long three miles can be. All attempts at gratitude and noticing the beauty around me get overcome by an interior dialogue that goes something like this:

“Three more miles? That’s like more than an hour of this.”

“True, but that’s not so long.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s like forever!”

“It will go by in no time. Listen to some music.”

“I am listening and it is still a long time.”

“Maybe you should start doing more aerobic exercises.”

“Oh, like that really helps now.”

“Hey, it’s only about 2 ½ miles now.”

“Shut up.”

“I can’t. I’m in your head. Be grateful.”

This goes on for another mile or so until we hit the snow.

At first, the snow on certain parts of the trail seems like a nice distraction. We’ve brought two pairs of trekking poles which the three of us share. This seems to work fine until we emerge out of the forest and then, everything changes.

We have come to the first of many avalanche slopes.

Picture traversing a 60 degree mountain slope that is covered with snow and ice. At first, it doesn’t seem like a big deal. But as we make our way across the first slope two things happen.

First, my youngest son, who is now about half way across, looks down. Bad move. He’s not thrilled with heights and we are very high indeed above the valley below.

Second, I realize his predicament and try to speed up to help him. Doing so causes me to slip. I use my  trekking pole to prevent a tumble, but now I come face to face an unnerving realization: all three of us are just one mis-step or slip away from a 500 foot toboggan slide down the mountain without a toboggan or anything other than rocks and trees in the valley below to halt our progress.

One moment I’m whining to myself about the exertion of the hike and the next I’m aware of something so surprising I don’t want to take it seriously but I must:

We could die here.

 

To be continued…

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Sadness and serendipity – Part 2

by Steve Brock on October 21, 2011

The trip to my nephew’s funeral was one of sadness, certainly. But also one of surprise, even serendipity.

One definition of serendipity from Webster’s is “the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.” That would apply to my brother’s and my experiences covered in Part 1 of meeting the hospice director and the former pastor on our respective ways to the funeral.

But with meaningful travel in general, and this trip in particular, we encountered a slightly different definition of serendipity: going in search of one thing and finding another, one that seems unrelated to the former but in fact, furthers our original journey or intent but not in the way we imagined. 

The view from Fort Phoenix, town of Fairhaven, MA, an unexpected destination...

My parents and I flew from Seattle to Providence, Rhode Island. There, we met my brother who had just arrived from Florida. We had a wonderful dinner together that first night, catching up and discussing the funeral that was to occur the following evening.

The next morning we awoke and had most of a day to do nothing. Rather than hang around the hotel all day, we decided to do something I hadn’t expected on a trip of this kind: we played tourists. In the next entry, I’ll give you a photo essay of the surprising things we encountered in Rhode Island and southern Massachusetts.

What the photos cannot reveal, however, are the moments that transformed this day from one of mourning to one of a different kind of discovery.

First, as we drove through the old sections of towns like New Bedford (former whaling capital of the world, or so they say) and Fairhaven, MA, we saw more funeral homes than I’ve ever seen before. Whether they do indeed have more mortuaries per square mile there or whether we just noticed them more this day, I cannot say. But each was a poignant reminder that even though we were enjoying a beautiful day together, the intended purpose of our trip was never too distant.

Second, we all came to realize that this was the first trip that the four of us had taken, just on our own, since I was in high school. We’ve done other vacations or family gatherings with our spouses and kids, but not just my parents and their two sons for years. My mom especially noted this, appreciated it and marveled at the time we had together, just the four of us. I tend to think of “family” as a multigenerational collection that spans both my side and my wife’s side through grandparents, uncles, nieces, in-laws – everyone who we consider to be a relation. Yet this trip revealed that something special happens when you travel with only the people who formed your tightest, most intimate circle growing up.

Third, as is often the case in times of pain and vulnerability, we appreciated each other and what we saw more. We paid better attention to the small details – meals unique to that region, comments that reveal a shared sense of humor, the cobblestones of the streets or scent of the sea. I am convinced that our joy is more noticeable when contrasted with our sadness and such was our experience this day.

We came on this trip to mourn the loss of a family member. What we ended up experiencing was a trip where we celebrated and valued dearly the family I have known since birth. It wasn’t the trip I expected. It was much better.

But then, our journeys of serendipity usually are.

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Sadness and Serendipity – Part 1

by Steve Brock October 18, 2011

Even on difficult journeys, God provides what we need but in ways we would never expect and often through the kindness of strangers.

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Ugly Beautiful

by Steve Brock October 12, 2011

Some trips, like those involving the loss of a loved one, are journeys we would rather not take…until we do and we discover something beautiful.

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The loss of something beautiful

by Steve Brock February 7, 2011

We encounter things on trips that move us profoundly but we don’t know why…until other “unrelated” circumstances reveal surprising connections. I came to appreciate this recently by encountering two very different forms of death.

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