Mysterious ways

The Walkman came along. She was greatly proud of it, thrilled to have one, if for no other reason than all of her friends likely had one too. I don't remember if my wife and I actually discussed her having her own back then--it seems entirely innocent today--but I know the Walkman was just purchased for a California vacation.

The vacation was for them, my wife and kids, not so much for me. I'd been invited to speak at a youth conference, read stories actually, not preach--I've never been much of a preacher.

I'd picked out stories for particular reasons, but don't ask me to remember which stories and why and when. I'm sure the leaders allowed a modest honorarium, but the invite--and the bucks--were enough for us to think that maybe the Schaap family should drive out to California and back, and see the sights of San Francisco, Salt Lake City, and whatever else we might find out west and back.

It was maybe 35 years ago, and the camp--and the kids--were somewhere close to Santa Cruz (I remember going to a theme park there, part of the conference and far more interesting, I'm sure, than the speaker).

Memory's mysterious ways are far beyond our control. What will stay and what won't are not choices we make. Our consciousness has little say in the matter. What sticks from that whole trip, what I'll never forget is a dining hall dinner when all those kids got up from their chairs at once and zoomed to the windows. I remember the chandelier swaying, but it took me far more time than it took them to know we were in the middle of a California earthquake. 

The Schaaps, Iowa flatlanders, had never felt an earthquake before, so we didn't know that watching swimming pools was great fun, the only time a pool could host white-water rafting. In a second, they were all at the windows, watching the show.

Now AJ, our daughter, had been invited to eat dinner with some big kids. Ball and chain wouldn't have kept her with us--of course, she wanted to, but when they dashed off, she had no idea why she'd been left deserted. 

The quake was over in a matter of seconds, but it registered with all of us--and with AJ.

The conference center had cabins. We were given a beautiful little bungalow in the trees. That's the front porch up above. I was the speaker, but the powers that be had determined we'd be comfortably apart from whatever shenanigans went, late night, at the dorms, an arrangement that was sweet and greatly satisfactory.

Late that night we were all in bed when a timid little voice said, "Dad," stretched that word out in vivid fear and trepidation. "Daaaaaaaad"--not loud, nothing close to a scream, but a trembling, brow-beaten still small voice.

"What is it?" I said. The truth?--I wasn't interested in getting out of bed. 

"I can't get to sleep," she said. 

Our daughter wasn't a 'fraidy cat, but her tone was mousy enough for me to understand that this wasn't just childish. She was scared. 

"The earthquake," my wife said.

I figured I'd better go to her room, which I did. Her mother was right. Our daughter, not all that far from her teenage years, was scared. Who knows how such fears arise? She was afraid.

I tried faith. After all, I was the speaker--the seer. "You don't have to be afraid, honey," I probably said. "Jesus is always with us"--or something to that affect. It seemed like the right thing to say because it always was, right? I'm sure I embellished it somehow and held her hand.

But it took a second strangled little voice before I actually prayed with her. When I did, I thought that would do it for sure.

I was wrong. "Daaaaaaaaaad"--weakly, a third time, not wanting to frustrate her father, but still frantic. That time I did a cultural analysis, told her that if all those kids were in Iowa, they would be scared to death of tornadoes; yet, we lived with the possibility, right? Tornadoes were scary and awful, but we didn't let them shape our lives or make us shiver in the night. "Just ask Jesus to help," I said again.

Nope. Once more, a half hour later. It was now after two, I'd guess, and I had no easy answers. 

This time I didn't leave the bed. "Honey," I said, "just turn on your Walkman. Just listen to music." 

And that was it. Technology quelled her fears, allowed us all to rest. Prayers were okay, I guess, but the Walkman finally put that earthquake to rest.

I'm quite sure I didn't mention that whole story when I had to speak, didn't bring it up. It wouldn't have been fitting exactly, and AJ, had she been there, wouldn't have been thrilled to hear her anguish exploited. 

I've long ago forgotten the name of the camp, nor do I remember where it was, nor what I might have said. When I found that picture a couple of days ago, I remembered the night our little daughter couldn't sleep and the way I had impiously given her fear over to a Walkman. My mother would not have been pleased.

Mysterious ways, sure enough.