ONE FOR THE MEMORIES: A RUN ON THE RIVER FOR DAD, KIDS
DATE: September 21, 1991
PUBLICATION: Dayton Daily News (OH)
EDITION: CITY
SECTION: RELIGION
PAGE: 3C
COLUMN: DAVID E. KEPPLE RELIGION WRITER
It was grueling, arduous, painful, at times frustrating and embarrassing - and it was fun! Sort of a metaphor for life itself.
This is the story of my journey into the heart of darkness, and how I communed with God's natural wonders in the process.
Never into scouting as a youngster, I have managed to make it out once or twice a year for weekend camp-outs with my sons, both of whom are members of Boy Scout Troop 236, based at Christ United Methodist Church in Kettering. This is no small feat for a fellow who, frankly, would be overwhelmed if asked to tie a square knot, let alone erect a tent. Fortunately, I have sons to take care of little details like that. The evening of Friday the 13th found us camping at Fyffe's Canoe Rental in Bellbrook as part of a special, father-son expedition sponsored by Troop 236. The outing began on an exciting note, with a terrifying electrical storm that sent scores of scouts and fathers huddling under the nearest picnic shelter, where slashing winds drenched us with cold rain.
As mammoth bolts of lightning pierced the sky over our heads, followed by mind-numbing cracks of thunder, I knew this would not be a weekend to let my prayer-life slide. I had that same sense the next morning, as the boys served up some kind of French toast balls for breakfast. But that was only the beginning.
Our mission was to board canoes and conquer a 10-mile stretch of the Little Miami River, putting in near Alpha, north of U.S. 35. Paddles in hand, life-preservers donned, we also wore our "game-faces" as we boarded the buses that would take us to our starting point.
Now, I'm no neophyte when it comes to life on the river. Why, only nine years ago, I joined my sportsman-brother for a canoe outing on the whitewater of the Youghiogheny River in southern Pennsylvania.
That was a memorable outing, from the moment I inexplicably stepped off the canoe into water over my head at the outset of the trip. No, I wasn't trying to walk on water, though it must have seemed that way to my puzzled companions. Then I broke one of the paddles - ah, but that was my rookie excursion.
So, just nine years later, I found myself back on the water. This time I was the experienced hand, with my 11-year-old son, Scott, the rookie. We entered the river - neither one of us having the slightest idea what we were doing as we headed downstream.
Bringing up the rear was Dr. Charles Goodwin, the scoutmaster for Troop 236. About 15 minutes into our journey, Goodwin and a young companion had already helped us drain our swamped craft a couple times, while we learned the subtle nuances of steering a canoe.
Goodwin, by the way, must have the patience of a saint. The amount of time and attention he devotes to the youngsters of Troop 236 is beyond my comprehension. And I have never seen him lose his cool, even in the face of situations that would make most guys bonkers. In his spare time, he doubles as chief of staff at Children's Medical Center.
"Dave, you're doing a FINE JOB, just a FINE JOB," Goodwin asserted in a friendly, native-Alabama drawl as we scrambled to keep up.
Before too long, we were on our own - behind everyone else - grinding to a halt on the rocks, smashing into tree trunks on the river bank, and generally exploring our tolerance for pain. There were a couple times when I thought I was hitting the IQ Stage - for "I Quit." You know, that's the moment in labor when women decide maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
I have to admit, during this stage, I used some language that wouldn't be found in the Boy Scout handbook.
In the middle of our trip, there was a moment when our canoe turned over (again). The water was moderately deep, and my son looked as though he might be in trouble. It was a little scary. Thankfully, we recovered pretty quickly, with only some minor anguish from tripping over a submerged tree branch.
Seeing my son come out of it OK filled me with enough gratitude to venture on. Besides, I didn't see any sign of a helicopter coming to pick us up.
After stopping for sandwiches at a park near Indian Riffle Road, we forged ahead for the final half of the journey. Now seasoned, veteran men of the river, we made our way downstream with quiet confidence - only tipping into the water on two more occasions. Our modest quest now was simply to make it back before dark.
Shouts of "There they are!" greeted us as we finally paddled into our base in Bellbrook about five hours after we began.
As a party of swimming boys approached our canoe and threatened to swamp it yet again, I resisted a strong temptation to use the paddle on their heads. For after all, wasn't it Jesus who said that the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these?
I understand Troop 236 is planning a trip to Pennsylvania next spring to hit the whitewater on the Youghiogheny River, and they may be looking for some extra adults to take part.
Darn, I think I have to work that weekend.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
In the Aftermath of 9-11
Clergy Column for Religion Page of Middletown Journal, for Sat. Sept. 22, 2001
Donald Rumsfeld, U.S. Secretary or Defense, summed it up well on one of the Sunday morning talk shows last weekend. A newsman asked him if the attack on the Pentagon "was personal," since he had been in the building at the time.
"Of course, it's personal," Rumsfeld said, adding, "It's personal to all Americans."
Indeed, every one of us has been profoundly touched in one way or another by the massive terrorist assault of Sept. 11 which destroyed the World Trade Center in New York, damaged the Pentagon just outside Washington, D.C., claimed thousands of lives, and left many others severely injured.
Numbing shock, horror, disbelief, fear, anger -- these and other emotions came in a torrent. It all seemed so unreal.
The day started out normal enough. I had a few minutes that morning before time to make the short trek from the parsonage to our church, so I flipped on a cable news channel a little before 9 a.m.
To my stunned amazement, I saw one of the World Trade Center's twin towers ablaze, amid reports that an airplane had crashed into it. I decided to take a portable radio with me to the office so I could keep up with the news.
As I listened to the radio, shock turned into horror when another airliner smashed into the trade center's other tower, setting it on fire, too. And when word came that another hijacked plane hit the Pentagon, and that at least one other hijacked plane was unaccounted for, I felt really afraid -- and not only for our nation. You see, our daughter, Judy, and her husband live in downtown Washington, and Judy also works in the heart of D.C. Not knowing the extent of the assault, I feared they could be in mortal danger.
I ran back home as quickly as possible to compare notes with my wife. We decided to try reaching Judy by telephone at work, but all the circuits were busy. Then we sent her an e-mail at work. Not long after that she called to let us know that she was all right. She said she could look out her window at work and see smoke in the distance. . . .
What a harrowing day -- a life-changing day for all of us, and our country.
Sept. 11 also began a challenging time for clergy around the nation, as we moved in various ways to meet the pastoral needs of our communities in a time of national crisis.
As the day continued, I knew some sort of response was essential, but I felt uncertain where to begin. I prayed to God that direction would be given, and I was relieved when our United Methodist bishops called on UM churches around the nation to conduct special prayer services and prayer vigils.
But it wasn't just a Methodist response. Throughout the land, churches, synagogues and mosques opened for services and prayer vigils. We the people -- the people of God -- began storming the gates of heaven with our prayers, perhaps as never before.
Already, it seems, God is bringing great good out of radical evil. He has done it before. He took the death of his Son, Jesus, whose crucifixion was the greatest injustice of all time. And God took that moment of defeat, failure and disgrace, and turned it into the greatest blessing of all time.
Jesus taught that the way to defeat evil -- to truly defeat it -- is to overcome it with love.
We have already begun to do that in this country. And we will overcome this great evil with love -- as we continue uniting to help each other, swelling with love of God and country -- and with love for each other.
It is not too late for America to once again be one nation under God.
And God will not forsake us.
Donald Rumsfeld, U.S. Secretary or Defense, summed it up well on one of the Sunday morning talk shows last weekend. A newsman asked him if the attack on the Pentagon "was personal," since he had been in the building at the time.
"Of course, it's personal," Rumsfeld said, adding, "It's personal to all Americans."
Indeed, every one of us has been profoundly touched in one way or another by the massive terrorist assault of Sept. 11 which destroyed the World Trade Center in New York, damaged the Pentagon just outside Washington, D.C., claimed thousands of lives, and left many others severely injured.
Numbing shock, horror, disbelief, fear, anger -- these and other emotions came in a torrent. It all seemed so unreal.
The day started out normal enough. I had a few minutes that morning before time to make the short trek from the parsonage to our church, so I flipped on a cable news channel a little before 9 a.m.
To my stunned amazement, I saw one of the World Trade Center's twin towers ablaze, amid reports that an airplane had crashed into it. I decided to take a portable radio with me to the office so I could keep up with the news.
As I listened to the radio, shock turned into horror when another airliner smashed into the trade center's other tower, setting it on fire, too. And when word came that another hijacked plane hit the Pentagon, and that at least one other hijacked plane was unaccounted for, I felt really afraid -- and not only for our nation. You see, our daughter, Judy, and her husband live in downtown Washington, and Judy also works in the heart of D.C. Not knowing the extent of the assault, I feared they could be in mortal danger.
I ran back home as quickly as possible to compare notes with my wife. We decided to try reaching Judy by telephone at work, but all the circuits were busy. Then we sent her an e-mail at work. Not long after that she called to let us know that she was all right. She said she could look out her window at work and see smoke in the distance. . . .
What a harrowing day -- a life-changing day for all of us, and our country.
Sept. 11 also began a challenging time for clergy around the nation, as we moved in various ways to meet the pastoral needs of our communities in a time of national crisis.
As the day continued, I knew some sort of response was essential, but I felt uncertain where to begin. I prayed to God that direction would be given, and I was relieved when our United Methodist bishops called on UM churches around the nation to conduct special prayer services and prayer vigils.
But it wasn't just a Methodist response. Throughout the land, churches, synagogues and mosques opened for services and prayer vigils. We the people -- the people of God -- began storming the gates of heaven with our prayers, perhaps as never before.
Already, it seems, God is bringing great good out of radical evil. He has done it before. He took the death of his Son, Jesus, whose crucifixion was the greatest injustice of all time. And God took that moment of defeat, failure and disgrace, and turned it into the greatest blessing of all time.
Jesus taught that the way to defeat evil -- to truly defeat it -- is to overcome it with love.
We have already begun to do that in this country. And we will overcome this great evil with love -- as we continue uniting to help each other, swelling with love of God and country -- and with love for each other.
It is not too late for America to once again be one nation under God.
And God will not forsake us.
Baby Girl Kepple
This is a column I wrote which appeared in the Middletown Journal (Saturday, Dec. 16, 2000). -- Dave Kepple
This is the story of someone who never had a chance to live. She was my older sister, who was stillborn on March 27, 1937. This story is told in brief, with the hope that in one small way it will say to the world, "Yes, this life counted, too."
In this special time of the Christian year, when we focus on the birth of a Child whose life would change the world forever, I offer this story as a Christmas gift to anyone who has ever suffered the loss of a child at birth, or even in the midst of pregnancy. God knows your pain, as I'm sure He knew that of my mother and father in the early spring of 1937.
This story begins near the end, with the death of my mother, Barbara Kepple, on March 2 of this year. During the last months of her life, she began to speak more openly about the loss of her first-born child. Before then, it was somewhat of a family secret, generally known -- but with no details -- and very rarely discussed. Indeed, it was only as a teenager that I learned one day, almost by accident, that there had been an older sister who was dead at birth.
You see, God had blessed my mother and father with four sons -- of which I am the youngest --after the death of this little girl. And when my eldest brother began his family, he had three boys. And my next-eldest brother's first child was a boy, too, so when a granddaughter finally came along in 1968, it shook my mother's world. It was then she blurted out her anguish over the loss of her own little girl. . . .
Through the last few years of her life, my mother was in poor health and it became clear she might not long have to live. During this period, I had a very vivid dream of mother being in heaven with God -- and she was holding the baby girl which had been taken from her tragically so many years before. Only now the baby was alive and well, and there was a look of pure and total joy and peace on my mother's face, like none I'd ever seen before.
At Mother's funeral, my family called upon me to say a few words, and I disclosed the contents of that dream, and the sense of comfort and great hope it gave me. It felt "right" to share this with my loved ones in this time of sorrow.
Soon after the funeral, my brother, Bob, began searching for the unknown facts about our sister. He eventually determined that "Baby Girl Kepple" was stillborn at 2:16 a.m. on March 27, 1937, and that she was buried the same day in an unmarked grave in a cemetery in Greensburg, Pa., our hometown. As a family, we decided to honor her life with a marker, and it was at last in place as I travelled to Pennsylvania to visit with my brothers and their wives early this month.
On Dec. 5, a cold, gray morning in western Pennsylvania, members of the family stood together at the graveside, for the first time given the opportunity to mourn the loss of the sister we never knew. I received the privilege of leading a brief service of death and resurrection on behalf of "Baby Girl Kepple," and reflected upon the fact that though she was never given a name on this earth, her name is surely known to our Loving and Merciful Father in Heaven.
As the service ended, I believe we all experienced a sense of completion. A circle that had been left open for too long had now been closed. This awareness was highlighted by a modest epiphany, as sunshine burst forth, bright and warm, in the midst of this dark winter's morning. I like to think Mother was smiling down upon all of us.
This is the story of someone who never had a chance to live. She was my older sister, who was stillborn on March 27, 1937. This story is told in brief, with the hope that in one small way it will say to the world, "Yes, this life counted, too."
In this special time of the Christian year, when we focus on the birth of a Child whose life would change the world forever, I offer this story as a Christmas gift to anyone who has ever suffered the loss of a child at birth, or even in the midst of pregnancy. God knows your pain, as I'm sure He knew that of my mother and father in the early spring of 1937.
This story begins near the end, with the death of my mother, Barbara Kepple, on March 2 of this year. During the last months of her life, she began to speak more openly about the loss of her first-born child. Before then, it was somewhat of a family secret, generally known -- but with no details -- and very rarely discussed. Indeed, it was only as a teenager that I learned one day, almost by accident, that there had been an older sister who was dead at birth.
You see, God had blessed my mother and father with four sons -- of which I am the youngest --after the death of this little girl. And when my eldest brother began his family, he had three boys. And my next-eldest brother's first child was a boy, too, so when a granddaughter finally came along in 1968, it shook my mother's world. It was then she blurted out her anguish over the loss of her own little girl. . . .
Through the last few years of her life, my mother was in poor health and it became clear she might not long have to live. During this period, I had a very vivid dream of mother being in heaven with God -- and she was holding the baby girl which had been taken from her tragically so many years before. Only now the baby was alive and well, and there was a look of pure and total joy and peace on my mother's face, like none I'd ever seen before.
At Mother's funeral, my family called upon me to say a few words, and I disclosed the contents of that dream, and the sense of comfort and great hope it gave me. It felt "right" to share this with my loved ones in this time of sorrow.
Soon after the funeral, my brother, Bob, began searching for the unknown facts about our sister. He eventually determined that "Baby Girl Kepple" was stillborn at 2:16 a.m. on March 27, 1937, and that she was buried the same day in an unmarked grave in a cemetery in Greensburg, Pa., our hometown. As a family, we decided to honor her life with a marker, and it was at last in place as I travelled to Pennsylvania to visit with my brothers and their wives early this month.
On Dec. 5, a cold, gray morning in western Pennsylvania, members of the family stood together at the graveside, for the first time given the opportunity to mourn the loss of the sister we never knew. I received the privilege of leading a brief service of death and resurrection on behalf of "Baby Girl Kepple," and reflected upon the fact that though she was never given a name on this earth, her name is surely known to our Loving and Merciful Father in Heaven.
As the service ended, I believe we all experienced a sense of completion. A circle that had been left open for too long had now been closed. This awareness was highlighted by a modest epiphany, as sunshine burst forth, bright and warm, in the midst of this dark winter's morning. I like to think Mother was smiling down upon all of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)