Two things happened on the same weekend this spring. Our lake thawed and our grandson was baptized.
In the beginning…darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters.
Every February when the boys were growing up—when winter had ceased to be cozy or magical and had become an interminable cold, grey slog—we would place our bets. Each family member would guess when the lake would completely thaw. And then we waited. Usually the thaw happens overnight. One afternoon the lake looks like a vast expanse of brushed aluminum. The next morning the dark surface is alive with waves, like something stretching after a long sleep. The day the lake thaws is always a good day.
It is the assurance of things hoped for…
A small log cabin is nestled near a different lake in an adjacent state. It is an exact replica, built by hand more than one hundred years ago, of a cabin that stood on this spot long ago when the land was wilderness. The original cabin had been built by a Frenchman named Stephen Badin when he was 64-years old. Four decades earlier he had fled the French Revolution and sailed for America, where he was ordained a Catholic priest. During his life, he traveled thousands of miles on horseback and on foot throughout a frontier that transitioned from wilderness to settled villages to burgeoning cities . He abandoned the little cabin after three years, and moved on, serving immigrants throughout the Ohio River Valley for the rest of his very long life.
…the conviction of things not seen.
When I look north across the cold and choppy waters of our recently thawed lake, the sun rises behind my right shoulder. The old oaks and hickories along the shoreline throw long shadows across the surface until the sun finally peeks over their yet-bare branches. By summer solstice, the sun will rise in front of me, right of center. No longer peeking timidly above the trees with pale morning light, it will boldly claim the morning with a burning golden ascent.
It is the greater light to rule the day, to separate the light from darkness.
Today the log cabin is a chapel. Two or three dozen plain wooden chairs form rows on the hardwood floor. The soft spring light filters through simple double hung windows and warms the wood-paneled walls. Fr. Stephen Badin lies buried in front of the altar. He traveled much in life, and moved a few times in death, as well. But now his remains lie in the little log cabin. It is no longer surrounded by the wilderness. If Fr. Badin could sit up—and we opened the cabin door—he would see the campus of the University of Notre Dame.
He died in faith not yet having received what was promised.
As soon as our lake thaws, flocks of Canada geese arrive with both a literal and figurative splash. There is nothing subtle about them. Honking with self-important arrogance, the monogamous pairs get to the business of nesting. Next, a couple of loons, some white swans, and dozens of coots will glide into the lake to rest for a few days before flying farther north for the summer. Then scores of mallard ducks appear, each looking for this year’s mate. The pairs who select the hidden nesting spots—those whose eggs are not eaten by raccoons and the neighborhood fox—will soon lead their fuzzy offspring to the shore where the youngsters take like ducks to water. The great blue heron alights early one morning. He scans the water as with a mincing gait he picks his way along the dock, looking like a spindly professor eyeing his students piercingly while pacing in front of the chalkboard.
The birds fly above the earth across the firmament of the heavens. They are fruitful and they multiply.
Our grandson will be baptized in the log cabin chapel, and the priest is waiting when we arrive. In his mid-eighties, his eyes twinkle, his sense of humor is still quick, and he is as spry as we remember him. He recently retired after serving for half his life as the rector of one of the men’s dormitories at Notre Dame. Each year he shepherded 350 young men out of their adolescence and into their adulthood. Open-hearted, and able to distinguish between the critical and the nonsense, he has a deep sense of the sacred. During his decades as rector, he celebrated Mass each Sunday evening in dormitory. The young men filled the space to overflowing. Some of them were even Protestants. All were welcome.
Without faith it is impossible to please God. For whoever would draw near to God must believe that God exists.
In our thawed lake, big muskies begin to jump. I hear the thwack of their long bodies hit the surface, but I see only the splash of water. Do they jump for any particular reason? Maybe they’ve been jumping all winter, bumping their heads on the ice ceiling. From the dock I can peer into the deep clear water and watch little bluegills and bass weave among the vegetation. The turtle’s head barely breaks the surface before he dives for cover under a sunken log near the shore.
The waters swarm with living creatures.
Our grandson wears a long white gown, his little body nearly overwhelmed by the yards of beaded lace. He cheerfully cooperates while we tie a bonnet under his chin. A friend has made this gown and bonnet from my wedding dress. Now, in this log cabin chapel, I see manifestations of that long-ago commitment of marriage.
“God, at the very dawn of creation your Spirit breathed on the waters, making them a wellspring of all holiness…. By the power of the Spirit give to the water of this font the grace of your Son.”
The water trickles down our grandson’s forehead. He watches his parents with curiosity. They have, in faith, made a decision for him. When he is older, he will be able to confirm or reject their choice.
Of all the creatures on the earth, only we get to make choices. The geese must mate; the loons must migrate; the muskies must jump; the fox must hunt. But only people can choose not to do something of which they are capable. What an awesome power—the power to choose.
By faith we understand that the world was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was made out of things which do not appear.
And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.
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Italicized words are taken from the book of Genesis in the Old Testament, and the letter to the Hebrews in the New Testament.
