It Was A Beautiful Sight
By Jim E. Reames (04/25/03)
This minute I’m relaxed in a lawn chair in my yard looking at the clean blue sky above SW Idaho, where even the puffy white clouds are breathtakingly beautiful. On my lap sits a notebook computer. The vapor trail of a highflying jet appears as a moving arrow, headed due west at rapid speed.
The American flag is dancing with the breeze above my front yard, and the sound of a neighbor’s lawn mower is the reminder I’m not alone. In the distance I can hear the sound of traffic on Interstat-84, just 25 miles from the Oregon State line and 35 miles west of Boise. This is rural America in the Pacific Northwest—far removed for the sights and sounds of war!
Meanwhile, two local “war hawk” pilots are providing an admission-free aeronautics display of airworthiness combined with pilot skills, some twelve thousand feet above my house, and I seriously doubt if either of them has proper permission from the FAA to be flying the way they are. But none of that matters now. Not when it is compared with what I witnessed in church this morning--and I’m not talking about the sermon! In fact the only thing I remember about this Easter morning’s sermon is our district supervisor talked about some user’s manual for a new video camera he just bought. It seems he is having difficulty understanding the instructions—albeit the book was said to be “…written in perfect English.” He also mentioned something about not having been popular in high school. That’s right! My eyes and my conscious thoughts had eluded the sermon of the day.
Like most Christian church services this morning ours started off with songs being sang by the choir. But what really caught my attention was the sight of a young boy about 10 or 11 years of age. He was sitting on the pew towards the front of the church, next to his mother. She had long blond hair that draped her black jacket. And she was completely into the music---that is, until feeling the grasp of her son’s arm around her own.
I watched with interest as the young boy then took his mother’s hand into his own before gently placing his head against her arm. He wasn’t tired, or even bored because this was a son’s embrace of the very woman who brought him into this word.
Without question I was witnessing the combination of love, respect, admiration, and trust all rolled into one emotion---just as the two of them briefly appeared as if one.
The sight of this made my mind then drift to the Middle East. I tried, in vain, to remember ever having seen televised footage of such a sight broadcast from Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, or even from Egypt---only to confess the negative.
“Why not?” I asked myself with sincere conviction. “Why are the only sights that ever emanate from the Middle East those of war and of religious fanaticism? Why do we only seem to be shown footages of men with guns? And of suicide bombers? And of death? Why can’t we ever be shown the sight of a young boy in total love with his mother, in a public setting…and the two of them at total peace with God and with the world?”
Another thought crossed my mind. Perhaps this was the true sermon God wanted me to hear. I discovered confessing to my own soul that if I ever felt compelled to kill another human being for not sharing the same religious belief as my own then my religion will have failed me. It would be time for me to reassess the message itself, or to abandon all forms of religion completely. Perhaps that is one reason why we never see the human outward expression of love from the Middle East—because too many men do not share this same desire for peace. In the name of God they would rather kill, sort of like some of America’s militant war protestors prefer violence to make their point about hating war. The way I see it, their religion has failed them.
Even though our district supervisor was preaching I heard very little of it. He, of course, was talking about the resurrection of Jesus Christ, while across the isle I saw another family. Sitting next to her father was a young girl about 10 or 11, and next to her was an older sister who was about 12 or 13. The younger of the two had given up on the preacher, too, her head solid on her father’s right knee. Her own back, in turn, was being used as a pillow by her big sister, and dad’s arm was outstretched to cover the both of them.
Studying this young father I saw a typical Twenty-First Century cowboy, complete with a macho mustache, an open collar shirt, and a strong face. There was no doubt in my mind he owns and drives a four-wheel drive pickup truck. He works with his hands. He is not a coward, and like President George W. Bush he never bluffs! He is also not too embarrassed to be seen singing in public. On his left sat a mother and wife of equal strength, an outwardly beautiful woman of high moral fiber.
“Where do we get such parents?” I asked myself with the conviction these were not the residual byproduct of television sitcoms. In his and her own way each parent was self-assured, strong, and brave about life. Their children were at peace and unafraid. They all appeared secure and loved. For me, personally, it was the most beautiful sight of the day on Easter Sunday, April 20, 2003.
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