Falling Through the Ice. John D. Hiestand

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Falling Through the Ice

      The Path of a Zen Methodist

      Copyright © 2014 J. D. Hiestand. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions. Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      ISBN 13: 978-1-4982-0016-5

      EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-0017-2

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. 09/04/2014

      Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

      Scripture quotations marked (KJV) are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version, Cambridge, 1769.

      Excerpt from Borderland © 1987 by Marilyn J. Carwin. Used by permission of the author.

      Who else could I dedicate this work to except the two women

      who have filled my life with joy, pushed me towards excellence

       and kept me from falling too hard?

      My mother, Barbara Hiestand and my wife, Vivian Hiestand.

      Events and people in these stories are taken from my memories and experiences. A few names have been changed in order to protect the privacy of those individuals, and I have occasionally modified reality somewhat in order to, as W.S. Gilbert wrote, “add verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.”

      Prelude

      I awoke contemplating the passing of an old friend; it was a disturbing way to start the day. I wondered if I might be under the illusion that his fate was in my hands—or maybe, it wasn’t. This was assuming, of course, that he wasn’t already gone, obliterated—or maybe, he was. The truth was I didn’t actually know if Alan was still around or not, and I realized if I chose to I could go on not knowing for quite some time. So the question that really disturbed me that morning wasn’t whether or not Alan was still alive, it was whether or not I wanted to know.

      As I lay in bed trying unsuccessfully to sort things out, the sun rose in an unhurried fashion over Long Scraggy Peak. It lazily overflew the town of Buffalo Creek, then made its way upward, crossing over the North Fork of the South Platte River until it reached my bedroom windows with gold, piercing, high altitude light. On most days, my wife and I would simply draw the curtains closed and sleep in, proving we could be just as unhurried as the sun. But on this particular Wednesday morning we were too anxious to sleep in, I for reasons I suspect my wife Vivian did not share. So we rose, made our tea and coffee, and watched the squirrels and birds vie for the mountain of bird seed that we had poured into the feeder the night before. Days at our cabin near Bailey are often like this, except for the rising early part, and often no real activity begins until 10 or 11 a.m. Afternoon naps are required after a casual lunch, and by four o’clock we would look at each other in astonishment wondering how the day had gone by so quickly without us accomplishing anything. This was followed by that guilty/wonderful feeling that we really didn’t need to accomplish anything anyway: the earth was still turning and the squirrels were still hungry.

      Vivian and I had been fortunate enough to get a couple of days rest at the cabin before we were obliged to attend the Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church in Denver, an hour or so away. This annual confab of Methodist clergy and laity in the Rocky Mountain Conference would culminate on Saturday evening with a large and formal ordination service, where new clergy would be officially ordained as Elders in the United Methodist Church. Vivian and I were two such new clergy, and some of our anxiety stemmed from the number of hoops we anticipated having to jump through before the big ceremony on Saturday. We had both served provisionally for two years as ministers and had managed all of the previous hoops successfully, but still . . . For this reason, Vivian was understandably anxious about the future, while I remained inexplicably anxious about the past.

      The cabin in Bailey is our refuge. Even though it sits in a little subdivision, the lots are large and scattered amongst the conifer forests in a way that makes us feel isolated in the mountains, as if we were miles away from everywhere. The quiet seems intense when we first arrive, but it becomes soothing after a few days as our spirits realign to the natural world around us. Below us Deer Creek purrs softly on its way to the confluence with the North Fork of the South Platte, while crows and ravens, magpies and chickadees, hawks and even the occasional Golden Eagle circle overhead. It seems like the first real home I’ve had in years, since after leaving home at nineteen I had moved around frequently in California, Washington, Oregon and Colorado. It was ironic that we had at last found a place of rest and repose at the same time we were joining an organization famous for its itinerant clergy. So we clung to Bailey stubbornly even as we moved around the Rocky Mountains from church to church. No matter where we served, we felt we always had a place to come home to; a place where we could rest our minds, souls and bodies, and most often accomplish the sacred nothing.

      On that Wednesday evening, after lunch and naps, Vivian realized we had nothing in the fridge for dinner, and would I pleeeeease drive down to Conifer and get something: chicken or steaks to barbeque would be good. Conifer was 20 minutes away, but it was the closest town with a grocery store, so I got in the car and snaked my way through the back roads until I arrived at Highway 285, where I turned north and headed into ‘town.’

      I had barely pulled on to the highway when my cell phone rang and it was Vivian. A friend had called and suggested that they have an old-fashioned gals night out at the Cutthroat Café in Bailey and they couldn’t wait for me to get back with the groceries, and I wasn’t invited anyway ’cause I wasn’t a ‘gal,’ and so I should just get whatever I wanted and cook it up for myself when I got back ’cause they were going to be a while.

      OK. Might as well continue on into town.

      As I drove along the highway, my thoughts returned to the passing of my old friend Alan, which inevitably led me into a persistent journey metaphor. As I pulled into the parking lot of the Safeway, I thought aimlessly about how many times I had driven this route, actually and metaphorically. On the eve of ordination those drives seemed more than just a little symbolic of the shuttle my life had been on: back and forth between seeking the illusory security of income and career, and seeking deeper meaning in an increasingly vacuous world. Long drives produce odd musings.

      Here inside the earthbent edge of heaven,

      Within the span of endless sage and sky . . .

      My СКАЧАТЬ