how we got here

How We Got Here

for Dad, on your 80^th birthday

from Troy, with love

            Yesterday our drive started in full sun and took us through a twilight of shifting colors—but with each increment of time it felt as if the beauty of those moments would last forever.

            God made the light in color, at once deepening and unchanging. We don't know how it happens, but we meet eternity in this place of passing time. Suddenly, a lifetime becomes this twilight.

            The sun was brilliant at one point, drawing our eyes to its rich, dense light as it set slowly. A bank of clouds like slate obscured the topside, and it seemed as if the sun was attached to the sky’s cathedral stone, delaying the onset of twilight in mercy.

            The sight of the setting sun prompted the family to try to capture it on camera as we drove to see you. But you can’t capture these moments like that. We could no sooner bottle the ocean than photograph the dusk of the day. So, we kept driving, contenting ourselves that the mind’s eye can hold these moments better than a smartphone.

And as we drove, the sun began to merge with the horizon. I drove as if I could reach that horizon but the horizon kept moving, elusive, like hope…present but always out in front calling to a changing landscape.

We hit La Crosse and drove through that stretch of road that bends and curves. The terrain there swells wildly, unpredictably. The river divides the states and the water widens in places, drawing our eyes to its flowing stillness.

When the sun and the horizon meet, the sky changes color again. The finest artist could not canvas it. There are too many colors to mix. Deep blues and purples, like lilacs. Orange like a robin’s breast, gold richer than Solomon. Red like blood. Amber that drips like honey, both sweet and strong—a gentle kiss. There are so many colors to see in this twilight and the textured hues were multiplied in the water. We tried again to capture the colors with our cameras, trying to keep these moments.

We can’t.

Most times these sacred mysteries are right next to us but we don’t even notice them. But yesterday God graced us with the gift of recognition.

Recognition that the road has been long.

Recognition that it hasn’t always been easy.

Recognition that we took for granted the lion-share of the day.

Recognition that, nevertheless, the day was rich and full of life.

And recognition that the day isn’t over yet.

And there is beauty in this place for these moments

that we want to capture with our cameras, but can’t.

The recognition is a grace and we know God is here by that grace.

We know God is here because we are here to share these moments together, however brief they may be. We know God is here because he’s given us the beauty of this day, this time together to enjoy the changing, breathtaking colors of twilight.

And we are assured that the God of this twilight will be the same God of the night. However we got here, it was by Love and wherever the road takes us it will be under the canopy of that same Love, a horizon we will never reach, but is present, all the same.

Happy birthday, Dad. We are glad to be with you for this time.

Love,

Troy

the tuesday moon

It is Tuesday and I am driving the city street. It is night and there are all sorts of lights to call my attention. The row of headlights; car after car coming towards me in the westbound lane. The tail lights directly in front of me brighten when the driver stops at the sign for a second, then dim when she accelerates. There is the turn signal of the car behind me, indicating left as I make my stop at the sign, then go. Just ahead to the right the chain store signs gleam on two corners, calling patrons. The amber parking lot lights illuminate the small urban spaces. Ahead and to the left is the old liquor store sign in red neon letters, the windows alit with reminders that inside there is food, drink, cigarettes.

I approach the traffic signal and move to the left lane. The light is red so I give my eyes a rest from the manmade lights to look up at the sky, craning to see a star. And there she is, the moon I hadn’t yet noticed; full or almost full, I don’t know. What strikes me is the mystery of her. She appears to wear a veil tonight because of a layer of cloud, too thin to utterly obscure her beauty.

This is the light I saw on your birthday and I instantly thought of you, for you are like the Tuesday moon to me, my daughter. Your light undimmed even when clouds cover; your light diffused, reaching further because of the air’s mist. I have never seen such color and I feel I shall never see it in any other than you. When small lights like those on the street corner burn out, yours will remain.

   

the world traveler

for Meaghan, on your birthday

You were 11 months old when we moved to Europe; we celebrated your first birthday in Portugal. During our time in Europe, you attended four different schools and lived in 5 different homes in three different countries. Yes, this spanned 12 years of your life, but I think it is safe to say we got used to living out of suitcases. Here you are, making yourself at home in one.

I remember pushing your stroller over cobblestone streets, uphill to our shared home overlooking the river that opened into the Atlantic. The bright yellow house punctuated the vibrant blue sky amid lush green gardens. The home had no central heat, nor water heat, so we managed to make do with portable propane heaters. When we bathed you we worked out a system so that, when you were finished in the bathroom, the bedroom would be nice and toasty for jammy-time.

There was a large, round glass-topped coffee table in the center of the living room that you had a love-hate relationship with. You loved crawling under it, but when you wanted to stand up, you’d rap yourself on the back of the head and cry out from the sharp pain.

My prayer for you on this your 18^th birthday is that wherever God takes you he will lift the glass ceiling and will show you nothing but bright, vibrant colors, warmth, comfort and rhythmic alleyways. May you find a true home in God wherever you may roam—even when living out of a suitcase. May you continue to face adventure with quiet strength and courage.

I love you, Meaghan, and could not be more proud of the woman you have become.

let me pretend that wishing makes it so

Let me pretend that wishing makes it so. I wish…

…your mom could come to celebrate with us tonight. Right now, we’d have a few minutes to catch up before you get home from work. And I’d tell her what she already knew.

“Heather has your compassion for the down-and-out. She makes friends of strangers and family of friends. She’s a hard worker, honest, and real. She’s creative and has a gift for words. She won’t let anyone put her in a box…she’s tough, that one.

“She’s generous. Why, just the other day she was trying to think of a way to give to someone in need.”

Your mom smiles.

“She has your smile, perfectly asymmetrical, curving just to the side.

“She doesn’t give up, ever. And she knows how to fight a good fight. She’s quick to forgive.

“And she’s a great cook, can you tell?” I pat my belly, protruding prominently.

“She loves her some Christmastime and she reminds me she learned that from you. Thanks!

“You’ll be proud of her when you see her, when she comes home.”

I wish…

…I could see you celebrate with your mom tonight. That would be my birthday gift to you. Let me pretend that wishing makes it so.

70 years ago

Today is the 70^th anniversary of D-Day. My brother Tony sent me an email this morning. Here’s what he said:

My Dad called me last night and told me my Uncle, Ivan Cady, is in Normandy for the 70th Anniversary of D-Day.  I am so happy for him.  He just had his 90th Birthday and was a member of the 2nd Ranger Battalion on D-Day.  He was one of the Soldiers who scaled the cliff at Pointe Du Hoc on Omaha Beach under withering fire in the early morning hours of 6 June 1944, during Operation Overlord. 

He was a PFC at the time, if I remember correctly, and was awarded the Bronze Star with "V" (Valor) device for his actions.  His unit took a severe beating, but by 0900 they had accomplished their mission of taking out a large German artillery piece, a number of other pillboxes, as well as multiple machine gun and mortar emplacements. 

He went on to fight in numerous other battles including time on the front in the Black Forest in the winter of '44 and the Battle of the Bulge. 

He is absolutely an American Hero and the entire world owes him and all the others who fought that day an enormous debt.  And in my humble opinion, a debt that can never be fully repaid.

So very proud of him. 

He sent another email later with the following news report from Wednesday’s edition of the Wall Street Journal, sent to him by his daughter Jennifer.  The article is by Karl Rove. Ivan Cady is my uncle:

"The Still-Living Memories of D-Day" - Ivan Cady was in the first wave on Omaha beach.  He never expected to go home, 'except in a box.'

One or two rely on walkers, some brandish canes. But even those stooped with age stand erect when the national anthem is played and sing with abandon. They are all in their late 80s or early 90s. But in the mind's eye, they are the young men who stormed Hitler's Atlantic Wall early on June 6, 1944, and redeemed the world.

On Tuesday I met several dozen American D-Day veterans as they embarked from Great Britain for France and the 70th anniversary celebration of the invasion of Europe. The men were the guests of the Greatest Generation Foundation, whose founder, Tim Davis, introduced them to me.

One of the veterans, Alfonso Villa, had been trained in underwater demolition and was in the first wave on Omaha Beach with the 237th Combat Engineers. The "mad ocean," he says, swept him and three others through the wires, obstacles and mines, depositing them on the shore. "Mother Nature saved us," he adds. "I was one of the lucky ones."

Al Villa spent the rest of the day clearing paths along the coastline, then fought through to the war's end in Europe. He returned home to jobs at the post office and the Denver Mint, and then spent decades in construction.

Born in Hazard, Ky., Wilson "Bill" Colwell enlisted in 1943 by lying. He was only 15. He parachuted with the 101st Airborne into Normandy shortly after 1:30 a.m. on D-Day. The last words he heard before jumping were, "Look to the left, look to the right, one of you will not see daylight." His aircraft missed the drop zone by 20 miles.

Mr. Colwell and six others from the 101st and 82nd spent five days fighting their way back to the beach, traveling by night to avoid the retreating Germans. When his 200-man company was sent back to England to train for the next major airborne offensive, 82 of his comrades had been killed, captured or wounded.

Demobilized in late 1945, Bill Colwell worked in Detroit for Ford before deciding to open a vocational school in Colorado after vacationing in Denver.

Thomas J. Kilker Jr. was one of D-Day's old men. He was 25 years old at the time of the invasion, having enlisted just before Pearl Harbor. He flew one of the 52 gliders of the 437th Troop Carrier Group, 85th Squadron. As he approached an open field before daylight, with the lead craft below and slightly ahead of him, a "reception committee" of Germans opened up.

The lead glider went left and Mr. Kilker's went right. Both landed, though Mr. Kilker's glider broke apart in the process. He was carrying Gen. Matthew Ridgeway's jeep and a driver, who was injured in the landing. Mr. Kilker and his co-pilot rescued the driver and ran into paratroopers from the 101st as they put distance between themselves and the superior German force. To this day he wonders what happened to the 5-year-old French boy hurt in a firefight with a German sniper at an American aid station.

Originally from a little town south of Rochester, Minn., Ivan Cady was an 18-year-old private with the Second Ranger Battalion that came ashore in the first wave at Omaha Beach. He was "wet, cold, full of sand, and scared." No wonder. There was no place to hide; his unit was stuck "in the shooting gallery." He will only laconically describe what he saw as "horrible."

Mr. Cady says he never expected to go home, "except in a box." He carries to this day a sense of guilt for somehow surviving when so many others did not. When I asked how he was doing Tuesday, he said good, but he didn't know how he would feel Friday, the anniversary of the landing.

My hope is Ivan Cady and the dwindling number of men who stormed the Normandy beaches in 1944 allow themselves to accept what is due them, which is their nation's lasting gratitude. "I think continually of those who were truly great," Stephen Spender begins a poem. "The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre./ Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun/ And left the vivid air signed with their honour."

The achievements of these men and their honor endure. By suffering the day's violence and terror and that of the days that followed, they ended a madman's dream of a 1,000-year Reich and made possible the survival of human freedom.

I wrote my brother just now: “Thank you so much for sharing this. I am moved to tears...grateful, humbled and proud. Words fail...Love you, Troy.”

He replied: “They do fail, don’t they? Love you too, brother.”

Something tells me today I will observe the anniversary in respectful silence.

Thank you, uncle Ivan. Thank you.

an irish blessing

It's St. Patrick's Day so I thought I'd share a tiny cross-stitch message we have hanging by our front door at the Cady home. As you read it, consider yourself blessed!

In case you find that hard to read, here it is: 

"May the road 

rise up to meet you. 

May the wind be 

always at your back. 

May the sun shine 

warm upon your face, 

The rains fall soft upon 

your fields 

And until we meet again 

May God hold you in 

the palm of His hand." 

Amen.

the beautiful branch

We all grow in surprising ways. On Sunday I was privileged to share a story that reminded me of this. It is a story Jesus told, a parable:

The kingdom of heaven is like a person with the tiniest of all seeds, a mustard seed. It is so small that if I had one on the tip of my finger, you would not be able to see it with your naked eye. The person planted the seed in the ground and it began to grow. It grew into a large bush and then it grew so large it became like a tree. Soon, all kinds of birds came and made a home in the tree.

More or less, those are the words of the story Jesus told. Now here are some of the things you can picture in your mind’s eye: the “tree” is wild. It does not grow symmetrically. The birds are many-colored, also wild. Some of them make nests in the tree and some just want to fly. One of them comes very close to the person who planted the seed. This bird reminds me of the time Jesus came out of the baptismal water—and the Spirit in the form of a dove came close to him.

On Sunday when I told the story I saw new things in it. I imagined the person as the Father and the invisible seed as Jesus. I imagined the birds as the Holy Spirit—now red, then blue—sometimes black, white or gray—speckled or streaked—any color you can imagine. The Spirit makes a home and flies free. The Spirit loves both the plant and the planter.

The invisible seed (Jesus, the hidden God) grew and grew. We are the branches; each of us is a part of him, each of us makes a home for the Spirit of many-colors.

It was my daughter’s birthday on Sunday. As I entered into the wonder of the story, I savored a prayer of thanks for her life, grown from a wild vine. Like the branches in the story, I could not have predicted how or where she would grow--but one thing is unmistakable: the Spirit has made a home in her. Thinking of this still takes my breath away in worship.

Meaghan, you are beautiful. God loves you and so do I. Thank you for the shade you’ve given this weary traveler.  You are truly a gift worthy of celebration.

what i see in this picture

Yesterday afternoon I sat resting in the silence while rain sent whispers through the open window. The raindrops somehow loosened thoughts of you in my mind so I made a wish or two in my heart.

I wished I could see you, to celebrate your birthday with you. I cannot remember the last time I was with you on your birthday.

I also wished I could find a picture of just-you-and-me-together when we were kids, but I don't have one and cannot even recall seeing one. 

So, I will make a picture the old-fashioned way: with imagination. Here is what I see in you and you-and-me, my lovely sister.

I see a smile springing from laughter. This is joy, the joy of the Lord, radiating.

There is a small lit candle in this picture. The flame stands fixed, yet free. Just so, the woman is warm and brings light. And I imagine—I can see—your eyes, alive.

I see strength and a family born from faith and ruthless trust. I see a woman of persevering hope. She prays and gives. Her hands are well-worn.

I see a woman who dreams. She sees possibility when others are trapped. She is a picture of dignity, I can tell.

I see a soft heart. Her aspect is tender with mercy.

I see this woman now as a girl who loves her little brother like she was his mother. She nurses him back to health. She’s there when he learns to crawl and walk again.

So I see myself with you today. I am a boy with white curls and you are with me, sitting beside me. The boy has no idea what he would do without you and he takes this for granted most of the time. But not in this picture.

In this picture, the boy grows up to thank God for your life.

your memories

for Meaghan, on your birthday.

You will not remember the day I first held you but I shall never forget it. I walked down the hall with my eyes fixed on you. I could not tell you now what color the floor was nor what paintings hung on the walls because I only had eyes for you. 

I remember tucking you into the car seat to take you home. I remember bundling you up in a large towel in Portugal to keep you warm after your bath. I remember rushing you to the hospital in Barcelona. I ran barefoot through the streets. The Catalans thought I was crazy, no doubt. 

I remember our wrestling matches in Amsterdam and taking you to the dentist on furlough.

I remember enjoying the snow in Madrid, and hearing God speak to me through you when you told me one day: “I love our church! I have lots of friends here.” I had been wrestling with doubt and discouragement. You could not have known how your words washed over me like a warm ray of sunshine.

I remember giving you a cross when you confessed Jesus as Lord. I remember beaming with pride how you shared with others about your own journey with Jesus and I remember baptizing you. 

I remember picking you up at the airport last summer and looking at a picture of you this fall: you are a young woman now. Today, you are sixteen. I don’t want to remember that I am here, two time zones away from you. I hold you in my heart right now, like I held you in my eyes the day you were born.

And there’s this: the other day you said something that reminded me you are your own, strong person. It was a memory you held. 

And I had forgotten. 

So I just want to spend the rest of my life learning what you remember.  What matters to you matters to me.  

My prayer is that I will listen well to you and let your life speak to me—for it already has.

brother Jesus

I remember playing hockey with my brothers—Tony and Todd—when I was a kid. My mother tells me I learned to skate when I was just two years old. I suppose she’s right, since I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t know how to skate. Either way, I became known as “little Cady” among Tony’s hockey-playing friends down at the outdoor ice rink near our home in Rochester, Minnesota. There was a warming house there with long, worn wooden benches and a cast-iron wood-burning stove breathing heat to packs of red-nosed rink rats every winter weekend.

I loved the ice beyond reason. When a pick-up game finished most everyone went in the warming house to thaw but I wanted to stay outside, shooting a puck at an empty net or playing goalie showdown, best of ten.

Since I was the youngest in our family, my older brothers kept a watchful eye on me. We mostly played with Tony’s friends, so he took special responsibility for me. I’m sure he saw to it that his friends went easy on me when I had the puck and he was always quick to praise me when I scored a goal.

We are much older now, Tony and I. About thirty-five years have passed since those childhood days and we have become accustomed to long separations. When I was in high school, he lived in Europe so we didn’t see each other for more than four years. During college, I seldom saw him since he lived in another state, married with family. Then, I moved around; first to Chicago, then to Colorado Springs. I saw him for our grandmother’s funeral. I saw him in the midst of transition. When we lived in Europe, I saw him no more than once every two years, if that.

So it stands to reason that I was pretty excited when he arranged to visit us in our new home this Christmastide.  In spite of the scarcity of visits, we have a bond that swells my chest with hope. I look in his eyes and see: he believes in me.

We all need someone like that in our life. Tony is one of those someone’s for me. He always has been…

Once, when I was six or seven, it was particularly cold outside so my feet froze because I stayed out on the ice too long. Sitting in the warming house, Tony took off my skates and rubbed my feet with his hands. My feet felt as though they were on fire—not from the heat but from the tingling sensation that overcomes them when they are thawing out.

I began to cry. “It hurts!”

So Tony carried me home. Every step.

To this day whenever I see him I get the sense that his heart and faith still carry me and so many others like me. I understand why St. Francis called Jesus a brother because I see Jesus in mine.  

Tony, you are my Brother Jesus. Thank you.

a woman of hope

Let me tell you why it is appropriate for me to write about Heather as this advent week of hope comes to a close: she is a woman of hope, truly.

For as long as I have known her, she has been a woman of strength and endurance. She endured the passing of her mother at a young age. She waited and hoped longer than most to bear children. She waited years to realize the dream of overseas mission work—which is something she felt called to for as long as she could remember. In the midst of that mission work, she endured patiently and with hope the ups and downs of frontline pioneering.

Since we’ve moved back from Spain, she has done still more waiting and hoping. She works at a job now not because she feels particularly fulfilled in it, but rather because she knows her family needs her to work at it. At times, her work environment is…shall we say…less than ideal. But, she presses on unselfishly thinking of others before herself.

So, it stands to reason, she’d be looking for a different job—one that’s more fulfilling and energizing. And that’s just what she’s been doing for more than a year and a half now.

In fact, before she found the job she’s working at now, she applied to a university that’s very close to our house. The proximity is just one small component of other factors that attract her to this place: it is the kind of university that aligns with our life’s values on many levels.  

But in spite of her attempts to get hired at this place, she has not been able to snag a job there. She has applied two different times and been turned down both times.

Now, she has been granted two more interviews. One is tomorrow at an office which is in the same denomination as the university and the other interview will be at the university in question.

She came home today, understandably, stressed. None of us like to get our hopes up only to have them dashed to the rocks. Yet, if she is going to do well in the interviews, she knows that is precisely what she must do—show some enthusiasm and confidence which naturally leads to getting one’s hopes up.

So…what to do? Go into the interview with a fatalistic mindset and resolve oneself to rejection or…go into it with hope? What to do, indeed.

Tonight, she needed some emotional and physical rest. A hug and a small cry.  A heartfelt prayer about light in the darkness uttered by her teenage daughter. Reclining by the Christmas tree shining gently in the evening. Some candles, a comfortable chair and a little soul-silence accompanied only by cello and piano. She has gone to bed now.  

And the God of hope watches over her. He will neither slumber nor sleep. He knows her coming and her going. He has numbered her every breath and named each tear she has shed.

I do not know if she will get one of these jobs. I do know she is intelligent and qualified enough to do them.

But more than that, I know and she knows that she is God’s child and in Him she lives and moves. She is beloved more than any of us can ever know.

That’s hope. So sleep well, my love.  The night will pass.