Under a Summer Sky (17 page)

A
fter they’d sung the middle hymn, Noah looked up and gazed out at his congregation with tired eyes. He felt as if he’d aged ten years, and when he’d looked in the mirror that morning, he’d decided he looked it too. The day before, they’d loaded up Laney’s SUV and E’s old Civic and driven all the way across the state to drop the boys off at school. And the trip hadn’t started off well because it was Saturday and all the homebound vacationers were trying to get off the Cape too—Route 6 had been backed up for miles.

E’s car had been busting at the hinges, and although he was keeping his car at school, they didn’t want to just send him off on his own. They wanted to help him move in and make sure he had everything he needed, so they stopped at Amherst first and then, after they’d tearfully hugged him and Laney had thoroughly embarrassed him by going through their ritual good-bye in front of his friends, they headed north to Williams—where Gabe made sure no one was around when he and Laney kissed each other’s palms and murmured, “I love you . . . keep the faith . . . fight the good fight . . . I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me . . . inch by inch, it’s a cinch!”

“
Your
mother,” Noah teased.

“Hey,” she said defensively, smiling at her tall, handsome son. “It’s tradition, right?”

Laughing, Gabe gave his mom another hug. “Yup, Mom, it wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t do it.”

After leaving him, they’d stopped at a diner for a bite to eat, and when they finally got home, Noah still had his sermon to write. He’d had plenty of time to think about it, but it was still a matter of organizing his thoughts into something that made sense . . . and, hopefully, had a meaningful message.

He looked down at his notes before speaking, praying that he’d get through the first sentence. “As most of you know,” he began, “my dad passed away last Sunday.” As he said this, a quiet wave of surprise and sympathy rippled through the sanctuary, and he had to fight back his tears.

He wiped his eyes and smiled sadly. “Through the years, most of you have gotten to know my mom and dad—they’ve been coming to church here in the summer for a very long time. The rest of the year, they’ve lived in New Hampshire—in the house where my brother and I grew up, and in a town where they both spent their lives teaching. My mom taught kids with special needs, and my dad taught English.” He paused, looked up, and smiled. “My dad loved teaching.... He loved books and poetry and plays, and although he never published a book, he filled countless notebooks with poems. And although he never wrote a play, he had a favorite—in fact, many of you have probably heard me talk about my dad’s love for Thornton Wilder’s timeless American play
Our Town
.

“At least once every four years—for the last forty years—my high school has put on a production of
Our Town
, and my dad has been at the helm, directing it. Before he retired, he directed it for the tenth—and last—time.” Noah smiled. “But years earlier—my senior year—I landed the coveted part of stage manager—which is where I discovered my gift for oration.”

At this, the congregation chuckled warmly.

“Anyway, my dad made sure that play was put on once every four years because he wanted every class to have the chance to either see it or be involved in it. The play’s poignant message was that important to him.

“For those of you who aren’t familiar with it,
Our Town
takes place in the early 1900s, and it portrays American life as it was at the turn of the twentieth century—a time of innocence before the Great War.
Our Town
is set in the fictitious town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire—a town very much like the one in which I grew up.

“As
Our Town
opens, the narrator, or stage manager—as he’s called in the script—stands to one side and briefly introduces the play and gives the demographics of Grover’s Corners; he then directs the attention of the audience to the lives of the Gibbs and Webb families and explains how George Gibbs and Emily Webb—once neighborhood playmates—have become romantically involved. In fact, it’s over an ice-cream soda at Morgan’s corner drugstore, that George and Emily realize they are in love, and soon after this realization, George decides to forego college and work on his uncle’s farm so that he and Emily can marry.”

Noah looked up and smiled. “They are married in the Grover’s Corners Congregational Church—with all of their friends and family in attendance.”

Then he paused and looked around. “
Our Town
has three parts, and the last part opens in the Grover’s Corners cemetery up on the hill; nine years have passed. As we all know, in real life, joy and sorrow often walk hand in hand, and it’s the same in this play. The enduring happiness George and Emily always hoped for comes to an abrupt end when Emily dies in childbirth.

“But the most moving scene in part three is when Emily ignores the warnings of the nine other dead souls in the cemetery and returns in spirit to the home in which she grew up. She wants to relive a happy day—her twelfth birthday. She stands to the side in the kitchen and watches her mother bustling about with early morning chores; she hears her mother call her down to breakfast, and she watches the interaction they share. Emily realizes how wonderful life is—even the mundane and everyday moments. Suddenly, she is overcome with grief and begs to be returned to the dead, her heart aching for the loveliness of the life that has rushed by . . . and she ponders out loud man’s inability to savor the preciousness of every minute.”

Noah paused and looked up at Maddie, who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She was surrounded by family—Laney and the three younger boys, Micah, Beryl, and Charlotte, and Isaac and Nina, and their girls, and then he looked around at all of the friendly, familiar faces of his congregation. There wasn’t a single person who hadn’t faced sorrow. “If you’re wondering if there will be a service for my dad, there won’t be. He didn’t want one, and so last Friday, we honored his request with a simple ceremony on the beach . . . and sent him off with a blessing and a poem.

“Life isn’t easy. In fact, when I think back over the last few months, life has been one long roller coaster ride of emotions . . . and I know I’m not alone in that sentiment. There isn’t a soul in this sanctuary who isn’t familiar with that ride. In fact, there isn’t a soul on earth who hasn’t been on it.” He looked up. “In real life, you can be on top of the world—you wake up in the morning and take a quick inventory: the sun is shining, the bills are paid, everyone’s healthy, the kids are doing well in school, that funny sound the car was making stopped on its own. But on that very same day, your world can crash down around you—the school calls to tell you your child fell in the playground and is being rushed to the hospital, a pipe breaks at home and floods the basement, a credit card bill shows up in the mail that knocks the socks off your budget, someone dear to you is diagnosed with cancer . . . or maybe it’s you who, with a sinking heart, feel an odd lump. Now, the clouds roll in . . . and they are big and dark and ominous . . . and we look heavenward and ask, ‘What happened to that sunny day? Don’t you know I was enjoying it?’ ”

He paused and looked up. “I recently found out that my dad had his own bout with cancer . . . and won. My mom said they celebrated.... she said they felt as if they’d been given a new lease on life, and they were going to make the most of it. One week later, he had a heart attack.

“Life is messy—there’s no doubt about it. It’s hard . . . and it often sets us back on our heels . . . but that still doesn’t mean it isn’t glorious. God gave us this glorious life to see what we would do with it . . . and He gave us resilient spirits and a promise to always be with us . . . through every struggle. My dad understood this about life . . . about God . . . and he made the most of it. His favorite psalm was Psalm 8—the one we read this morning.” Without looking down, Noah recited several verses from memory. “ ‘When I look at the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast established; what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou dost care for him? Yet thou hast made him little less than God, and dost crown him with glory and honor.’ ”

Noah looked up. “My dad was a great man . . . he was a good and faithful servant . . . he shared his time and talent with anyone who asked . . . and he embraced the come-what-may life God gave him. He was a loving son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, and friend . . .
and
he was a great teacher. He shared the play
Our Town
over and over because he believed its simple message was profound and timelessly poignant . . . and I think he felt that if he taught us kids nothing else, he could teach us the importance of embracing and savoring
every
moment. That was how he lived his life—he wrapped his arms around it, and come what may, he lived it to the fullest.”

Noah looked up and smiled. “None of us will live forever.” He paused and looked around at every face. “What will you do with the measure of your days?” he asked solemnly. “How will you spend your precious and glorious life?”

He opened his hymnal. “Please join me in singing one of my dad’s favorite hymns, ‘All Creatures of Our God and King.’ ”

T
he last week of August turned out to be the hottest of the summer, and even though Noah had promised they’d make a point of going to the beach, it was just too hot. On several occasions, they went down in the evening for a swim, but during the day it was miserable. Ben and Seth were constantly caught standing in front of the new refrigerator with the door open; Laney took to turning on the weather in the morning to find out if there was any end in sight to the heat; and on Saturday morning, as Asher—who’d come down late—ate warmed-up pancakes, he listened to the weatherman’s colorful descriptions and asked, “Why do they say, ‘It’s as hot as blue blazes’?”

Laney looked up from putting breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s because the hottest part of a flame is blue.”

Asher nodded and took another bite of his pancake. “And why do they call it ‘dog days’?”

Laney started to answer, but Noah—who’d just come in to refill his coffee cup—said, “I know! I know! When I was little, Grandpa told me it originated a long time ago when the Romans associated hot weather with the star Sirius. Sirius is the brightest star in the constellation, Canis Major, aka Great Dog. Sirius is also called the Dog Star, and it’s the brightest star in the sky.”

Asher’s eyes grew wide. “Sirius is also Harry Potter’s godfather . . . and his animagus is a black dog!”

“Well, there you go,” Noah said with a smile as he headed back down to his study.

Asher brought his plate over and handed it to Laney. “I’m not hungry,” he said glumly.

“How come?” she asked in surprise, looking down at the syrup-smothered pancakes.

He shrugged.

She frowned and put her hand on his forehead. “Do you want me to save them?”

“You can give them to Mennie and Halle,” he said, plodding gloomily out to the porch.

Laney scraped the soggy pancakes into the dogs’ bowls, and before she’d had time to put the plate in the dishwasher, they’d both hurried over and gulped down their portions. Laney poured the last of the coffee into her mug, dumped the grinds, washed the pot and filter, and wiped down the counters. When she finally finished, she looked out on the porch and saw Asher curled up on the floor with his arm around each dog and Lucky curled up in her favorite wicker chair next to them.

She went out and peered down at him. “What’s going on?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he said.

She scooped him up and pulled him onto her lap. The dogs looked up in dismay and then got up to move closer. “You guys are silly,” Laney said.

“They just want to be near us.”

“They were near us.”

“They like to lean on us.”

Laney smiled, and they sat quietly, watching the birds flutter back and forth to the feeder. “Did you know there’s a bird’s nest under the shed?”

Asher nodded. “Dad showed me. I saw the babies too, but now they’ve all flown away.”

Laney rested her chin on his head, and Asher fiddled with the string on his shorts. “I miss everybody,” he said, his voice full of sadness.

“Oh, hon,” Laney whispered, “I miss everybody too.”

“I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“You do?” Laney asked in surprise. “Why?”

“Because my heart hurts,” he said.

“Sweetie, you’re not having a heart attack.... Your heart is aching because you’re sad, but it won’t always be like this. You won’t always feel sad.”

They were both quiet for a time, and Laney pulled him closer and began softly, “Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince who fell into a deep sadness, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to overcome it. All of the sages and advisors in the court tried to discern the reason for the young prince’s somber mood, but no one could. Finally, on a crisp autumn morning, the gardener invited him to visit. The prince accepted, but when he arrived, he noticed that all the blossoms had gone by and most of the branches were bare. Seeing his dismay, the gardener quickly pointed out that the garden was still beautiful in its gold and rusty hues. The prince nodded, watching the chickadees, cardinals, titmice, and nuthatches fluttering busily among the vines and berries, and the gardener explained that it wasn’t his mind or body that suffered—it was his soul. She went on to say that all mankind endures the ebb and flow of life’s joys and sorrows—‘the rhythm of the tides’ she called it—much like the earthly change of seasons—and she assured him that his heart would once again know joy.

“The handsome, young prince considered her words and asked her how she’d come by such wisdom, and the gardener showed him an ancient sundial hidden among the roses. On it were engraved the words, ‘This too shall pass.’ ”

Asher sat up and looked at her. “Did someone tell you that story?”

Laney smiled and nodded. “My grandpa.”

He leaned back against her. “Did Grandma go back to New Hampshire?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can’t believe school starts next week,” he said gloomily.

“I can’t either. It seems like summer just started.”

“Can we go see the baby geese before we go back?” he asked brightly.

“Well, we can’t go today. Dad has to finish his sermon.”

“Can we go tomorrow?”

“Maybe. It would have to be after church.”

“Wait,” Asher said, turning to her. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

Laney’s eyes grew wide as she pretended to have forgotten. “You’re right—it is!”

“Well, we should definitely go then.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Grandpa’s birthday too.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s right . . . which means tomorrow would be the perfect day.”

Beaming, Asher hopped down and happily announced, “I’ll go tell Dad,” and with Halle at his heels, he raced down the hall.

Laney and Mennie watched them go, and then Mennie sat up and leaned against Laney’s legs. He rested his noble head on her lap, and she stroked his silky ears. “Do you want to go too, old pie?” she asked softly, and Mennie thumped his tail and gazed at her lovingly . . . and his solemn, brown eyes said it all.