In my June 30 blog, entitled “Sacred Place: Our Cabin” I began with the following quote from Lawrence Kushner, found in Belden Lane’s book on p. 37:
"The memories of a place become a part of it. Places and things
never forget what they have been witnesses to and vehicles of
and entrances for. What has happened there happened
nowhere else. Like ghosts who can neither forget what they
have seen nor leave where they saw it, such are the memories
tied to places of ascent."
If you ever watch the television show, “Without a Trace,” you will often see images of people in the past as they are envisioned from the present--what they did or said in a certain place. I believe literary people call this “magic realism.” Whatever you term it, I have certainly experienced it. Let me tell you about some of the people I can see in this cabin.
The first is John Marjamaa, a Finnish homesteader who came to the Americas soon after the turn of the 20th century. In 1905 he began to cut the white and Norway pine he found on this property, and out of those logs built the log cabin that serves as our living and dining room.
Then he sent for Rose, who arrived from Finland and became his wife. On the front wall of the living room, beside the tall, stone fireplace, I can see the marking in the wood where the stairway ran upstairs in this once one-room house. Up there John and Rose and some 10 or so children slept. Several of those children have stopped by over the years to see the property and fill us in on the fascinating history.
John raised dairy cattle, and kept chickens. Rose was a midwife and had gifts in nursing. They raised a bountiful garden and kept the grounds immaculate and beautiful. They dug out a cavity in the earth that served as their refrigerator. They were generous people, always welcoming anyone who needed a meal.
Of course, the log sauna that still sits down the hill behind our cabin was a favorite place. Family and friends would take a steaming sauna and then run down the hill and jump into the Blueberry River. In the winter they would just roll in the snow.
I often picture John and Rose and their children in this place. John died in 1953, and was buried in Green Valley Cemetery a quarter mile down the road. I picture Rose and the children returning to this cabin after the funeral. Friends gather to console them, but their hearts are broken.
A year later one of their sons would die, at the age of 44. He is buried next to John. Again Rose would return to this cabin in grief, wondering how her life could change so quickly. And then, just two years later, she would die. I picture the children coming home to gather what they wanted to keep, and then selling this cabin and saying goodbye to it.
I have now lived here long enough that I can practice my magic realism in reference to my own life, aided by the many pictures I have taken over the years.
I can see little Brian sitting on the floor, playing with his toys. I see him in the kitchen in his high chair, with oatmeal all over his face (and on the floor.) I see Jessica as a baby, brought to this holy place for the first time. I see the children holding fish we had caught in Blueberry Lake and Brian and I hitting golf balls on the makeshift driving range we made in the back meadow. I see Brian pitching a softball-sized whiffle ball to Jessica who is trying to hit it with a large red bat. He fakes a fast ball, and then lobs in a slow pitch, to which she states emphatically: “Brian. Don’t joke with me!”
I see Brian, about age 8, arriving at the cabin after we had talked about my first wife on the way out, saying to me, “Dad, I’m not glad your first wife died. But if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
I remember one Thanksgiving (it was our tradition to come here after dinner with Mary’s parents and then cut a pine to take home to Fargo for Christmas) when Jessica was extremely tired. We teased her about her difficulty walking through the snow in the meadow out back. A few days later, back in Fargo, we found out why. She was diagnosed early that December with diabetes.
And then there are the nearly endless memories of people who have passed through this place: my staff at Peace Lutheran in Fargo, members of the Synod Hunger and Justice Committee, many friends, and most of our family. Many of them are gone now, having transcended this world as they moved on to their own sacred place.
When my father died when I was 15, every night I would go outside in our back yard right before going to bed, and look up at the stars. A prayer arose from my sighing chest, expressing the loneliness and melancholy I felt, yet also the blessing and joy in knowing how much my father loved me.
When I am alone in this cabin, and light gives way to evening, I often feel the same way. I remember all who have passed through here. I give thanks for John and Rose and the spirit they gave to this holy place. I feel overwhelmed by the blessings I have received from Mary, Brian, Jessica and so many family members and friends.
This final picture captures my feelings as I end my sabbatical and leave this place. This road passes by Green Valley Cemetery. The morning fog blocks a clear view of what the future holds. But I am able to trust the goodness of that future because of all the people, some I have met, and some I have not, who have blessed my life, and because of our Lord who beckons us to go forth into the unknown future, trusting that he will always be there along the way.
