January 4: Snow Hill in the Air, Hope, God's Plan

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way- he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. 

WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL. 

BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN.

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces- though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it- would they let me- since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

Ishmael is speaking of motivation--WHY he chooses to go on this whaling voyage.  In some ways, he seems to think that it isn't really about choice and more about fate or providence.  He is destined to set sail aboard the Pequod with Ahab and crew.  He is destined for an encounter with the grand hooded phantom, that snow hill in the air.

As a Christian, I do believe in free choice.  However, I also believe that everything happens for a purpose.  I might not always understand that purpose, but it still exists.  When my sister was dying of brain cancer two years ago, I had a difficult time understanding the pain and suffering and loss.  Even now, I don't see the grand plan in her death, because it has only created difficulty and dissension in my family.

I just dropped my children off at school--their first day back after Christmas break.  My wife just left for work.  Here I sit in my empty house, typing this blog post about finding meaning in seemingly meaningless situations.  Yesterday, I spent a good portion of the afternoon emptying out my attic.  I threw over 20 years worth of living into a dumpster.  Old toys my kids used to play with.  Books I'd kept since my graduate school days.  Old letters and old blankets.  Each item brought back memories, both good and bad.

Many of the items I let go of were purchased by my sister who died two years ago.  She loved to spoil my children, would show up at our house unannounced, carrying a new toy or book for my daughter and son.  I think my kids thought of her as some kind of fairy godmother, and, in a way, she was.  She wanted them to have their hearts' desires.  So, each toy and children's book that went into the dumpster was a little piece of my sister, as well.

In Mere Christianity, C. S. Lewis says this about God's plans:

Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of – throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.

Maybe I don't have to understand the reasons for everything that happens in my life.  Maybe I simply have to trust that things are going to work out.  The death of my sister, election of Donald Trump, Republican tax bill--these are circumstances that confound me.  I don't understand why they happened/are happening.  Perhaps I need to be a little more like Ishmael, packing my bag and casting off for deeper waters, where monsters might be swimming.  I need to have faith in the Fates or Providence or God.

That might not sit well with some of my non-Christian or agnostic or Democratic readers.  Is the hand of God working in Donald Trump's White House?  In a brain sheathed in tumors?  In a country torn apart by racism and hatred and greed?

I have to believe it is.  If I don't, then I have to surrender hope, and I am not willing to do that.

Saint Marty is thankful this morning for the snow hill of hope in the air.